I cut the fabric wrong twice and had to undo entire sections late at night. But my aunt stayed beside me the whole time, never saying a discouraging word. She simply guided my hands and told me when to slow down.
Some nights I cried quietly while sewing.
Other nights I spoke out loud to Dad.
Each piece of fabric carried a memory.
The shirt he wore on my first day of high school.
The faded green one he wore the day he ran beside my bike while teaching me how to ride.
The gray shirt he wore when he hugged me after the worst day of my freshman year.
The dress became a catalog of his life.
Every stitch carried a piece of him.
The night before prom, I finished it.
I put the dress on and stood in front of my aunt’s hallway mirror.
It wasn’t a designer dress—not even close.
But it was made from every color my father had ever worn.
For the first time since the hospital called, I didn’t feel like something was missing.
It felt like Dad was there with me.
