Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“He kept it clean,” she whispered, her hand resting on the locker door. “Even at the end, he kept his things ready.”
I did not answer.
My eyes were fixed on the small brass hook screwed into the side panel of the locker, just below the shelf.
Hanging from the hook was a heavy, braided silver chain, its links gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light of the basement.
I reached into the dark metal cabinet and lifted the chain from the hook.
The weight of it was cold and familiar in my palm, the small spring clasp still functioning with a solid snap when I pressed it.
“Principal Bradley found it,” I said, my voice barely louder than a breath.
Clara looked at the silver links, her fingers brushing the safety pins on her collar.
“He went back to the shop on Main Street,” she said. “The jeweler told him Albert had pawned it three days before the first snow.”
I held the chain against my patchwork skirt, the silver bright against the blue chambray fabric of my father’s old shirts.
