I cut the fabric wrong twice and had to unstitch an entire section late one night and start over. Aunt Hilda stayed beside me and didn't say a discouraging word. She just guided my hands and told me when to slow down.
My aunt stayed beside me and didn't say a discouraging word.
Advertisement
Some nights, I cried quietly while I worked. Other nights, I talked to Dad out loud.
My aunt either didn't hear or decided not to mention it.
Every piece I cut carried something. The shirt Dad wore on my first day of high school, standing at our front door and telling me I was going to be great, even though I was terrified.
The faded green one from the afternoon he ran alongside my bike longer than his knees appreciated. The gray one he was wearing the day he hugged me after the worst day of junior year, without asking a single question.
The dress was a catalog of him. Every stitch of it.
Every piece I cut carried something.
The night before prom, I finished it.
I put it on and stood in front of my aunt's hallway mirror, and for a long moment, I just looked.
It wasn't a designer dress. Not even close. But it was sewn from every color my father had ever worn. It fit perfectly, and for a moment, I felt like Dad was right there with me.
My aunt appeared in the doorway. She just stood there, surprised.
