It was my favourite, a red dress with a white embroidered cat as a pocket. At the age of four it was the best dress I had ever owned. I’d never seen one like it before and have never seen one like it since. Wearing my dress, I somehow became elevated in status, as proud as a princess and probably as haughty as one, as well.

My mother couldn’t keep me still long enough to do up the tiny white buttons at the back, as I wriggled and jiggled. I felt radiant, beauty shone from my freckled face. My short cropped straight hair danced in the sun. No longer a shy, clinging vine, I became a dazzling red rose.

The time came when I could no longer slide that magical dress over my head, when I grew too tall to squeeze elegantly into it. But it was still my red dress. We tucked it away with care into a drawer, where I would occasionally peek at it. The white cat pocket continued smiling at me for another four years.

I wasn’t prepared for the day my younger sister, Judith, proclaimed by my friends to be far prettier than I, strutted through the door, twirled a twirl in front of me, exclaiming, “Look at my new dress.”

Jealousy and rage consumed me. I was staring my very own red dress. My heart thumped and tears welled in my eyes. She had no right to it. It was mine. I screamed at her, as loudly as I could, to take it off, then ran from the room. Hiding in my secret space under the hedge, I hated her for being small enough to wear it, while I no longer could. I vowed never to forgive her.

Over the years I often wondered if it held as much importance for her as it had for me. I suspect it was just another hand down of mine that she hated. Imagine always being on the receiving end of your sister’s outgrown clothing.

I’ve long since got over those first feelings of hatred and jealousy, so strong because they were new to me. My little sister grew up to be a wonderful friend.

Tonight, with the wisdom of years I now hand that dress to her, delighted to share it’s memories, honoured that she wore it after me.