Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“I want to go to the hill tonight,” I said.
Clara looked toward the dark kitchen window, where the stars were bright and clear.
“The wind is cold tonight, Nicole,” she said.
“I have my father’s shirts,” I replied, smoothing the patchwork skirt of my dress.
We walked down the gravel driveway and back to the car, our movements slow and deliberate in the midnight quiet.
The town was completely asleep now, the empty streets stretching out ahead of us like dark ribbons.
Clara drove slowly, her hands steady on the steering wheel as we wound our way up the narrow road that led to the cemetery.
The headlights painted the tall oak trees with long, reaching fingers of light before we finally pulled to a stop at the rusted iron gates.
We got out of the car, the night air sharp and clean against my face.
The grass on the hillside was dry and stiff, crunching beneath our shoes as we walked up the slope.
Midnight had passed, and the town of Oakhaven lay dark in the valley below, a scattering of streetlights marking the empty roads.
