A winged seamstress, my mother, sashayed satin, and lace through a vintage Singer sewing machine, its edges rusted yet glimmering like fool’s gold. We coexisted in silence until the sacred moment when my presence became suitable for her creativity. Serpentine tape measurer rolling over my limbs were our moments of physical contact—a process of precision. The feel of squeaky rubber thimbles and the lingering hum of folk music drifted through the stale Texas heat. My mother was a connoisseur of impracticality and ornamentation—the art of costume. The ensembles became our common love language of masquerade. Pageantry, dance recitals, and Halloween were keystones of our bond—an invented dialect of affection. A plumage of feathers to puff the breast to the world like a peacock. Something outrageous to line the trim of a dress, whether kitsch or gaudy. Prismatic dust trailed behind me for weeks, a quiet reminder of where I stood out like a sore thumb through every childhood milestone. A maternal mark.

     After she died, I found myself channeling grief through maximalist disguises, lacquered in gilded body oil. Every inch of me cloaked in product, color, and fabric. I embarked on a voracious search for my mother’s passions, only to be perplexed by her fascination with Latin. Vestigia Matris—"Traces of the mother." The archaic phrase lingers like an incantation. Vesti- lives on in many languages, shaping words for vestments and garments. I like to believe my mother’s proof is etched into the wool blazer that corners me like the black sheep I’ve always been. In the ripples of velvet, the woven threads of fabric, the indentations of leather, I remain on a restless search.