Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
I walked up the stairs, my boots making a dull, hollow thud against the unfinished pine boards. The blue and green patchwork fabric of my dress brushed against the dark wood railing as I ascended, the heavy cotton stiff but clean.
He stood there in his dark wool suit, his expression quiet and entirely serious. Before he handed me the microphone, he leaned in slightly, his voice a low whisper beneath the hum of the speakers.
“Your father would have been the first one standing, Nicole,” he said, his eyes kind.
He held out the black microphone, the long cord coiled neatly in his other hand. The metal of the casing felt surprisingly heavy and cold against my palm.
I turned to face the gymnasium, where more than half of my classmates and teachers remained standing. The light from the high fixtures caught the different colors of their clothing, but they all seemed part of the same silent tribute.
I twirled the silver signet ring on my right pinky finger, feeling the cool metal spin twice against my skin. The room was so quiet that I could hear the low hum of the amplifiers behind the stage and the distant whistle of the wind outside the high windows.
