Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
The patchwork dress rustled around my ankles as I stopped before the small gray headstone.
Albert’s name was carved into the granite, the letters clean and sharp against the dark stone.
I knelt down on the cold grass, the heavy blue chambray of my skirt spreading out around me.
“I did it, Dad,” I whispered, resting my hands on the cool marble of the headstone. “You were with me the whole time.”
The wind blew through the dry grass, carrying the faint scent of pine from the trees near the ridge.
I reached into the velvet box and took out the restored silver pocket watch, its chain pooling in my palm.
I laid the watch gently on the flat granite ledge at the base of the headstone, the silver gleaming under the starlight.
Clara stood a few paces behind me, her arms crossed against the cold night air.
“He would have been proud of that dress, Nicole,” she said, her voice steady in the quiet.
“He saw it,” I said, my thumb tracing the carved letters of his name. “He knew we would finish it.”
