When my dad died last spring, the world went quiet in a way that hurt to breathe. He had been my constant — the Sunday pancake maker, the teller of awful jokes, the voice that said, “You can do anything, sweetheart.” After losing Mom when I was eight, it had been just the two of us. Then came Carla.
Carla moved through life like a cold breeze — perfume sharp as frost, smiles that never warmed her eyes. When Dad’s heart gave out, she didn’t shed a tear. At the funeral, when I almost collapsed at the graveside, she leaned in and whispered, “You’re embarrassing yourself. He’s gone. It happens to everyone.” The words lodged in my throat like stones.
Days later, she began “clearing clutter.” Suits, shoes, and then a trash bag full of my father’s ties — wild paisleys, silly guitar prints, and stripes he wore on big days. “He’s not coming back for them,” she said.
When she left, I pulled the bag from the trash. Each tie smelled faintly of cedar and his drugstore cologne. I couldn’t let them go.
Prom loomed on the calendar, something I didn’t have the heart for — until one night, an idea sparked. If Dad couldn’t be there, I could bring him with me. I spent nights teaching myself to sew, pricking my fingers, piecing together every memory in silk. The paisley from his big interview, the navy from my solo concert, the guitars from every Christmas.
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