Cherishing Memories in My Late Mum's Soft White and Grey Checked Dressing Gown

By Rhubee Neale

The soft checked white and grey dressing gown hangs nestled amongst my scarves, garments, and keepsakes-each one holding memories of moments and milestones. I remember Mum sewing that gown, her eyes alight with pride when she finished it. That joy, that quiet triumph of creation, stays etched in my heart. She adored that dressing gown, just as she adored us fiercely. It’s hard to fathom that forty-nine years have passed since August 1978, when Mum left us. She slipped away just as I needed her most-a teenager adrift, swallowed by confusion and fear. At her funeral, I stood silent, staring at the sky, whispering, "Why take her?" She was my anchor, my only parent. Years later, I understood she had no choice. If love alone could’ve kept her here, she’d never have left. I was blessed to have loving sisters" Linda and Letty who embraced me.

Even now, strangers and old friends mention Mrs. Gibson (nee Briscoe) with warmth. "Kind", they say. "Unforgettable". I think of her life often: born under the desert sky to Friday, her Aboriginal father, and Ruby Briscoe, her Aboriginal-Irish mother, and her siblings. She entered the world the traditional way, grew up speaking a few Aboriginal Languages before English, and carried the her dreamings and songlines in her soul. Though she never read or wrote, she could replicate anything after seeing it once-clothe. A true Anmatyerr woman, grounded in culture, she’d remind us, “Remember who you are.”

We lived in Alice Springs, but Mum always brought us back to homelands 300 kilometers out, near the Tanami Highway. Connection to country was her compass. In the 1950s, she’d moved to Alice with my stepfather, Arthur William Gibson also known as (Bill) -an Irish station manager 40 year her senior originally from Bombala NSW. After he passed, my sisters Linda and Letty were placed into the Our Lady of the Sacred heart convent Alice Springs. Mum, was not considered a citizen as her non Aboriginal husband had passed away she was not allowed to keep her children, she could only watch them through a fence as she scrubbed laundry. Yet she persisted: working for Connellan Airways, at Mrs. Mc Grey’s, anywhere to survive.

Later, she met my father John Neale aka Jack, and I arrived. Her hands-small, gentle-crafted miracles from nothing. She learnt by watching, by living, her mind sharp skills she learnt from her traditional life and domestic training. I’ve mothered my own children now, but the hole she left never fully closes.

Then, during a trip to Canberra, my niece Anthea pressed something into my arms. “Close your eyes, Aunty.” The moment I felt that fabric, smelled her scent-Mum’s dressing gown-tears came. Wrapping myself in it now, I feel her embrace in every stitch. She’s been gone forty-nine years, but this threadbare cloth still holds her love, her whispers, her unyielding strength.