Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
I slid my finger under the tape, the old adhesive dry and brittle as it gave way with a small rasping sound. Inside lay a stack of folded papers, some white and some pale blue, all bearing the blue emblem of the county clinic.
Clara watched my fingers as I pulled the papers out, her hands resting flat on her knees under the table. “He kept his personal business close to his vest, Nicole.”
I unfolded the top page, the stiff paper cracking along the creases as I smoothed it flat on the laminate surface.
The document was dated October fourteenth, nearly half a year before the doctor at the clinic held his blue handkerchief. The word terminal was typed in small, clean letters near the middle of the second paragraph, right next to the date of his first chest scan.
“He told me it was just a winter cold,” I said, my thumb tracing the edge of the paper. “He said the doctor gave him some basic cough syrup.”
“He didn’t want you carrying his weight while you were trying to finish your senior year,” Clara said.
