Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
I poured a mug, the dark liquid steaming in the cool air of the kitchen, before I sat down at the table. Clara stopped her scrubbing, leaving the damp rag on the counter, and reached into the deep pocket of her apron.
She pulled out a thick, dusty manila envelope that had been folded in half to fit inside her pocket. “I found this at the bottom of your father’s metal tool chest,” Clara said, setting it down on the table with a soft thud. “It was tucked flat under his heavy socket wrenches.”
The paper was rough, sealed with three long strips of yellowed packing tape that had begun to curl at the corners. My father’s name, Albert, was written across the front in the neat, blocky pencil letters he used for labeling the school inventory.
“Did he leave a key for the chest?” I asked.
“The latch was already broken,” Clara said, brushing a stray white thread from her collar before she sat down opposite me. “He never did get around to fixing that utility box.”
