“This is for you, Mom,” he said. Then he swallowed. “For both of them.”
I did not understand until he reached into the pocket of the red dress and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in tissue paper. The laughter continued for a few seconds more. Then Aaron began to unfold the paper, and the story of that dress finally began to emerge.
Part Two | The Dress on the Kitchen Table
Two weeks earlier, I found Aaron awake at two in the morning. He was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea between his hands, though the tea had gone cold. The house was silent in the way it had been since Mary died, a silence that seemed to settle over every room and make even ordinary objects feel sacred.
A fold of red fabric rested across Aaron’s knees.
I knew the dress before he lifted his eyes. I had helped Mary choose it. I had watched her stand in front of a fitting-room mirror, turning from side to side while the skirt moved around her legs. She had looked tired that day, but the red had brought her real smile back.
