For Kaya
By Kimberly-Anne Ford
On my daughter’s first day of grade seven at Hadley Junior High School, I found a yogurt container, cut a slit in the top and inserted my spare loonies and toonies into the white bucket. This became Kaya’s grad fund, an endowment for frivolity and fun; an insurance policy that one day her graduation could be celebrated safely and in style. When the bucket got full, a bank account was opened, dedicated to financing all those things that can creep up on parents and grads—the gown, the limo, the hairdo, the shoes,… the list goes on.
I once heard words of wisdom for a new mom, “When you have a young child, the days are long but the years are short.” In a sense it seems like eons ago, but also the blink of an eye, that Kaya was a little baby, born smiling, taking first steps on a sandy beach in Gloucester, Massachusetts. Her early tracks are captured in my amateur painting of baby footprints at ocean’s lip that now hangs on my dining room wall. I listened as she sang her baby babbles trying to mimic her sister Tao’s lovely voice, as she practiced her first word, “dada”. I watched as she teetered over to pet her beloved puppy, Farley, or played with her best friend, her brother Leon. All these early moments, albeit some difficult ones at two in the morning when sleep eluded mom and tot, needed to be treasured. As the folk artist Old Man Luedeke says: “You got to hold on, it goes so fast, these early days well, they don’t last, you got to enjoy them, they go so fast, the baby days well they don’t last.”
The span of her life, from infancy to graduation, is rapid animation of snapshots: splashing in the hot tub with friends during birthdays at dad’s; trips with Leon to Toys’R’Us; feasting on pumpkin pies at Thanksgiving at Grandma and Grandpa’s; first day of school holding Leon’s hand waiting for the bus; singing along to dad’s guitar playing; riding grandpa’s tractor at the golf course; getting tipsy at her sister’s wedding. First parties, first crushes, first heartbreaks. The bumpy road of adolescence was not always kind. But as I replay scenes from the formative years, there is not much I would change, for they shaped the young woman that stands before me now. My kind, inciteful, fierce, sensitive daughter who is about to live through another of life’s major milestones—graduating from high school, and the ultimate bonding experience—shopping with Mom and Grandma for the perfect prom dress!
Kaya (whose full name is Kaya Diane Trillium Hipwell—a long name for a girl who took a long time to come into the world at forty-two weeks gestation) met her namesake, her Grandma Di, when she was just six days old. The instant bond between grandmother and grand-daughter was nurtured in sunny days by Lac St-François and babysitting trips when attentive Grandma sat down on the floor to play endless hours of building blocks and puzzles, though her cricks cracked on her way back up. It was Grandma Di who gave Kaya a prized possession—a Baroque Pearl on a chain of pure gold. It thus made sense for Kaya’s Grandma Di to be included in the hunt for the perfect gown for the upcoming prom.
“All abord Via Rail train 325 to Montreal.”
Car, train and metro transported mother and daughter to Aunty Linda and Uncle Chuck’s Montreal apartment overlooking St-Joseph’s Oratory on one side, and Villa Maria campus on the other. When I was a student at “the Villa,” my aunt and uncle took me in as a second daughter. I lived with them from Monday to Thursday night, then headed back to my parents’ house in the country at weekends. I still had a standing invitation to crash whenever I visited Montreal.
I could smell my aunt’s baked sweet potatoes (brown sugar coated with a hint of orange zest) before, stomach rumbling, I hung my coat in the hallway closet. The dining room table was set for four with the meat service flatware. Dairy dishes were kept separate in this kosher household. My aunt had taken pains to stock up on favourites for our trip, bagels and cream cheese, tons of fresh fruit, and babka, a Jewish chocolate bread; her hospitality is second to none.
“So, what kind of dress are you looking for?” Uncle Chuck asked Kaya, as we were enjoying the zingy bursts from every bite of our ginger chicken.
Kaya described the deep red dress of her dreams –low back, some rinestones or sparkles, spaghetti straps, full length to the floor with a slit up the side. We went to bed early that night, bellies full and feeling snug and dreamed about chiffons and lace, in every colour of the rainbow, but especially in deep burgundy.
My Mom picked us up just before the stores opened the next morning. A cross between a race car driver and a cabbie, she knows her way around and wants to reach her destination ASAP. We bifurcated the heart of downtown in minutes, arriving on Boulevard Saint Hubert just as shopkeepers were flipping door signs. Anyone who knows Montreal, knows that this is the Mecca for graduation and bridal shopping. Boutique after boutique, for several long city blocks, are lined up with flouncy frocks displayed in large shop windows.
The first recorded prom, a junior promenade, was celebrated at Harvard in 1874. Only males attended that first prom, which was more of a formal tea or banquet where etiquette and social refinement were taught. Five years later women appeared as guests at nearby Smith’s College’s prom. Dress was modest and formal. Women wore long, floor length gowns of heavy silk or velvet, with high necklines and long sleeves, corseted bodices, and minimal jewelry beyond white gloves and perhaps a broch. A glance through the Montreal shop windows revealed that the floor-length dress had made a comeback, but with princess cuts or spaghetti straps; tops more revealing than those sported in the 19th century!
We picked our first stop, not too far from the car, and were invited to take our shoes off and put on slippers. Hundreds of dresses lined the two side walls, mannequins in the centre aisle were fitted with sequins and silks, and every colour of the rainbow beckoned the eye and the touch. At the far rear of the shop was a platform, a stage of sorts, facing a mirror that spanned from one side of the room to the other. The owners likely feared the copy of their designs, as evidenced by ubiquitous “No Photography” signs. Kaya told the cheerful Eastern European saleswoman that she was looking for something red. A chain of vivid red satins emerged from all corners of the store. I did not like these dresses, they were too puffy… too scratchy… too bright. The saleswoman was helpful and did not tire as she carried out sample after sample. Zip, squeeze, tuck… fire engine dresses on brigade! I got a little bit restless, so I wandered around the store. To reset my eyes from the flames evoked by scarlet hues, I sought out somber navy blues, blacks, deep purples. I fingered buttery silks, unsnapped bodices, and uncovered skirts and under skirts. A flash of burgundy caught my eye. Upon closer inspection it became clear that the luxurious fabric was made up of silk threads of shiny deep red and matte black, giving off the translucent effect of shimmery burgundy. The dress was Kaya’s size.
“Try this one on my sweet.” I carefully carried my burgundy package to her.
I prayed she would like it. I prayed that it fit.
I could tell she fell in love with it right away. After a little help with clasps and zips, she emerged from the change room with a massive smile on her face, then made her way onto the elevated platform. The dress fit like a glove, no alterations needed. The skirt dipped to the point of her toe and the slit on the side revealed a peek at her long leg. Brocade and red rhinestone adorned the low neckline and the back dipped slightly lower than the front. It was held up by two satin spaghetti straps. This dress checked all the boxes. Kaya spun around. She walked the length of the store, sashaying left to right, as a permanent grin lit her features.
“I feel like a princess… it’s perfect.”
The three of us looked at each other.
“Is this it?”
“I think this is it.”
“This is definitely it.”
“Could we really have found your dress in our first stop?”
“It’s meant to be.”
We decided to do our due diligence and looked through four or five other stores. Nothing came close to the dream dress that awaited us behind door number one. Within a half day of playing dress up, of sucking it in and zipping it up, Kaya’s mind was made up, and grandma and mom agreed, we had found the dress for her.
I remembered my own prom gown, and how I had leafed through a coffee table book on prom dresses throughout the decades for inspiration before having it made to measure. The fitted waists and long skirts and crinolines of the 1950s gave way to flowy, long-sleeved empire waist gowns of the 70s. The A-lines or straight shapes of 90’s gowns certainly didn’t match my own knee-length puffy aubergine prom dress, but at the time I thought it was the most stylish thing I’d ever wear. Kaya’s dress hit the balance of unique and fashionable with its visible craftsmanship in the corsetry and texture, and sparkly embellishments like rhinestones, lace and light-catching threads. Prom 2026 would look closer to a red-carpet evening than a traditional high school dance.
Final exam penned, high school done. Now lists are made and a military-precision schedule for the big day is drawn up. Our dear friend and hair stylist Jane, who volunteered her time to do Kaya’s hair, is consulted on the order of events for a woman’s toiletage for a glamourous shindig. Every minute is accounted for and a timetable is pinned to the fridge. I read somewhere that when an infant comes into the world, part of its essence stays with the mother. I have, through the years, had trouble distancing myself from my daughter, so much is she a part of me. Being a Taurus, born in the Chinese year of the bull (double bull) she is headstrong, to say the least. Our relationship has been a dance of give and take, of limits and boundary-pushing. Much as my controlling tentacles want to meddle in her life, I have come to respect her autonomy and her strength of character. Still, as we purchase, plan and prep, I must remind myself, it’s her prom, not mine!
The day of prom was as much of a celebration as prom itself. Once her makeup had set, Kaya’s elaborate updo was carefully crafted by Jane. Over a couple of hours, curls and twists became a jeweled crown for the princess-graduate. The three arrived in turn, all gowned and gleaming, Aisling, Amy and Arielle, the besties that were accompanying Kaya that evening. Each young woman had her own style: Aisling, a classic beauty in blue-black velvet; Amy, straight-lined, form-fitting, red glamour; and Arielle (so well-tailored to her name) in whimsical seafoam with gems on her face and blue streaked hair. Snacks were consumed and a champagne toast cheered in an evening to remember.
We crossed the street into the manicured gardens of our neighbours, Bob and Janice. I sometimes shrug in embarrassment at how their lawn puts mine to shame, but on this special day I am thankful for their kindness in opening up their blooming oasis to serve as a backdrop for us. Bob, our friend and photographer, assisted by Heather who had come up from Ottawa to catch a glimpse of the grads, staged and snapped what would become our keepsakes in the years to come.
As with any big event, there were some glitches. Panic hit Kaya’s face when she sat for a pose and the back clasp on her dress broke. Jane, God bless her, once again came to the rescue and sewed the garment solidly so that it would certainly withstand the evening’s dancing. The limousine was 30 minutes late to arrive, holding Bob back from another gig as he waited patiently to snap remaining shots of grads getting into the hired car. But the pitfalls, like the many victories, served only to remind us to be grateful for our village of caring friends and family.
As I watch her climb into the white stretch with her besties, all four young women absolutely stunning and primed for red carpet glam, I whispered a wish for my graduate:
Kaya, as you set out into the world, remember the trillium. Trilliums return every spring thanks to their strong roots. Because of their setting seed, they spread. Wherever you roam and throughout all the adventures that await, may the bond to your community and the love of your family keep you anchored in self.
Wandering Wakefield 