Sarah Daniell: the everlasting black dress for Splore's Mother theme 2021

Then there was the white feather cap, as if the theme to your party was "Swan Lake, with a dirty laugh and cocktails". Sarah Daniell on her mother, Carola Daniell.

Sarah Daniell writes a letter to her late mum, a cool woman in a black dress.

There is a black dress. The label is "Society" and it was made in the 70s. Due to the indefatigable powers of polyester, it's in pretty much the same condition as the last time I remember seeing you wear it.

You made an art-form of dressing up and I loved nothing more than to observe the ritual, which had an air of reverence. You would have a glass of brandy and dry ginger ale on the dresser. I would sit on the end of your bed while you "did your face". Then you would open the jewellery box. I have that too, but nearly 30 years on it's mostly full of single clip-on earrings with no mate — it's fine to rock a single earring now, Mum.

You weren't wealthy — you had lots of what they would call "costume" jewellery but it was beautifully made. You had a wardrobe of clothes that mostly you had sewn: The gold V-neck taffeta number embossed with jewels, the black satin scalloped-neck gown that you wore with a white feather cap on your hair, as if the theme to your party was "Swan Lake, with a dirty laugh and cocktails".

I have a vivid memory of you preparing to head out to a party (there were quite a few), wearing the black dress. It must have been the early 70s, and I would have been really small, but the image is sharp and clear. But like a still shot. A fragment of an era. You looked like a movie star and smelled of lipstick. Your hair was always short and curly, and I've done the opposite — it's getting longer.

I loved you wearing that black dress and I wanted it so badly. Eventually, I got it. Not because you gave it to me but because I picked it from the pile of clothes my two sisters and I had to go through after you had died. It's a long, black halter-neck that crosses at the back. I wouldn't say the finishing on the seams is great but it's lasted about 50 years. It's vintage — which has cachet — but nowadays is often a byword for overpriced motley decadence.

To keep it was like keeping part of you. The black dress has been at some of the most significant and best parties of my life. In all the years you have not been here I have worn it many times which means you have been with me to at least three weddings, Halloween, two Winter Solstice dinner parties, a couple of festivals. Right now, there are bidi-bidis on the hem (original herringbone, hand-stitched, though at times redone by me after a particularly robust dance session) and you would be appalled, frankly, that I have not cleaned it since Splore in February 2020. That was the last party we had for a while. The excellent thing about the dress is it can be rolled up really small and when you unfurl it, there are no creases. Good to go.

When you left, I confronted the notion of finite-ness. I was shocked. I was not a small child, I was 28 and you might even laugh, Mum, and think this a bit dim. But apart from the grief, I was almost affronted by the fact you were gone. Perhaps I felt this way because you were so young and it was not your time. Even though people say you go when it's "your time", that is bulls*** actually. You should have lived another 20 years, at least. Gone to more parties, celebrated with your grandchildren and the ones you would never meet, walked more paths. Now I have children of my own, I cannot imagine what it must have been like for you to confront leaving us.

But over time I have come to realise you are, in fact, infinite in ways that transcend physicality, or tangible evidence of life. You are infinitely in my heart. As infinite as the stars and the black polyester dress that has been with me to weddings, parties, festivals. The black dress will probably outlive me and be the last dress standing. I tell everyone its provenance. It was my mother's! I say breathlessly. An acknowledgment of its impressive longevity, but mostly that it is you I carry everywhere too. So, you have been there too, with me, to all those celebrations. I have danced with you. You have been at tables where I sit with friends, tables covered with the detritus of indulgence, a carnival of disorder. One year I wore it to the media awards (I didn't win but the dress did). With me, you have seen in New Year's Eves, arguments, heartbreak, triumph and hilarity. When I got married, nearly four years ago, I modelled my dress on the black dress. Plunging neckline, cross-over back. So, you were at my wedding too.

You used to say, "Sarah, to thine own self be true." That is a good mantra to live by and I have tried, though even at 55 I still forget that sometimes and, man, do I know when I have failed. But I am here and so is the black dress.

I tried it on recently and the zip would not go completely to the top. I would be okay with not wearing it again, because very soon Daisy can, if she likes. She is 15 and she looks so very like you it's uncanny. I would suggest Isaac wear it but he's more into T-shirts and really baggy trousers right now.

So, I will get rid of the bidi-bidis, wash it gently in cold water, hang it up and hold on to it. I have felt closest to you wearing that dress. It is fecund with meaning, emotion and memories of going places.

Gone. But the infinite thread prevails, through the ages. From the original mother in southern Africa, we can all trace our DNA from Papatuanuku — Earth Mother — to Hine-nui-te-po, the goddess of death; to all mothers, daughters and sons, and through black dresses worn at festivals, hems trailing gloriously in the dirt. Dust to dust. Threads of infinity.

Splore 2021, "Mother", splore.net