Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
The gray pocket I had cut was sewn over my ribs, the original white stitching of the manufacturer still visible at the corners.
It did not look like a dress for a dance.
It looked like my father was standing there with his arms wrapped around my shoulders, his quiet presence holding me upright.
“They will mock you, Nicole,” Clara whispered, her hand resting on my shoulder.
“Gary and his friends will have their jokes ready before you even walk through the door.”
I looked at my reflection, my thumb slowly spinning the silver ring on my pinky finger.
“Let them look, Aunt Clara, because they are going to see exactly who my father was,” I said.
The blue cotton of the skirt fell to my ankles in clean, heavy folds that did not flutter when I moved.
It was a dress made for working, made for standing, and made for outlasting the cold.
“It is strong,” Clara said, her fingers tracing the hem.
“Your father would have said it was built to last.”
“I am going to wear it,” I said.
