***
The week after the funeral, I moved in with my aunt. The spare room smelled of cedar and fabric softener, and nothing like home.
Prom season arrived suddenly, sucking all the air out of every conversation. Girls at school were comparing designer dresses and sharing screenshots of things that cost more than a month of Dad’s salary.
I felt completely detached from all of it. Prom was supposed to be our moment: me walking out the door while Dad took too many photos.
Without him, I didn’t know what it was.
Prom was supposed to be our moment.
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One evening, I sat with the box of his things the hospital had sent home: his wallet, the watch with the cracked crystal, and at the bottom, folded the careful way he folded everything, his work shirts.
Blue ones, gray ones, and the faded green one I remembered from years ago. We used to joke that his closet was nothing but shirts. He’d say a man who knows what he needs doesn’t need much else.
I sat there with one shirt in my hand for a long time. And then the idea arrived, clear and sudden, like something that had been waiting for me to be ready for it: if Dad couldn’t be at prom, I could bring him.
My aunt didn’t think I was crazy, which I appreciated.
We used to joke that his closet was nothing but shirts.
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“I barely know how to sew, Aunt Hilda,” I said.
“I know. I’ll teach you.”
We spread Dad’s shirts across the kitchen table that weekend with her old sewing kit between us, and we got to work. It took longer than expected.
I cut the fabric wrong twice and had to unstitch an entire section late one night and start over. Aunt Hilda stayed beside me and didn’t say a discouraging word. She just guided my hands and told me when to slow down.
My aunt stayed beside me and didn’t say a discouraging word.
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Some nights, I cried quietly while I worked. Other nights, I talked to Dad out loud.
My aunt either didn’t hear or decided not to mention it.
Every piece I cut carried something. The shirt Dad wore on my first day of high school, standing at our front door and telling me I was going to be great, even though I was terrified.
The faded green one from the afternoon he ran alongside my bike longer than his knees appreciated. The gray one he was wearing the day he hugged me after the worst day of junior year, without asking a single question.
The dress was a catalog of him. Every stitch of it.
Every piece I cut carried something.
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The night before prom, I finished it.
I put it on and stood in front of my aunt’s hallway mirror, and for a long moment, I just looked.
It wasn’t a designer dress. Not even close. But it was sewn from every color my father had ever worn. It fit perfectly, and for a moment, I felt like Dad was right there with me.
My aunt appeared in the doorway. She just stood there, surprised.
“Nicole, my brother would’ve loved this,” she said, sniffling. “He would’ve absolutely lost his mind over it… in the best way. It’s beautiful, sweetie.”
It was sewn from every color my father had ever worn.
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I smoothed the front of it with both hands.
For the first time since the hospital called, I didn’t feel like something was missing. I felt like Dad was right there, just folded into the fabric the same way he’d always been folded into everything ordinary in my life.
***
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