Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
I walked over and stood beside the metal table, taking his right hand in both of mine.
His skin felt cold and dry, like paper left out in the sun for too long.
“You told me it was just a winter cold,” I said, my throat tightening as I looked at his sunken cheeks.
“I did not want you worrying about the clinic bills,” he whispered, his eyes staying on his leather boots.
“We have the money from Clara’s shop,” I said, though I knew the sewing shop was barely staying open.
My father shook his head, a small, dry cough shaking his shoulders before he could speak again.
“I wanted to see you in that bright room, Nicole, walking like you owned the whole world,” he said, his voice barely a breath.
“The spring dance is in May,” I said, my voice rising as I squeezed his hand. “That is only two months away.”
“I know,” he said, his thumb tracing the back of my hand. “I wanted to make it to that night.”
“You will,” I said, trying to believe my own words. “We will get you some better medicine.”
