I made my prom dress from my late father's old uniform - but what I found hidden in the fabric shocked me.
He didn't manage to do it right away.
My mother died giving birth to me.
His first attempt at braiding my hair made it look like he had tied a boat to my skull.
At six years old, I looked at myself in the mirror.
"Why is it leaning?"
"It's aerodynamics."
"Is this for school?"
"You never know when speed can make the difference."
"Why is it leaning?"
At eight years old, he already knew how to do a French braid.
At ten years old, he owned three kinds of detangling spray and had strong opinions about hair ties.
He burned pancakes, prepared packed lunches before dawn, and wrote lame jokes on paper napkins.
What do you call cheese that isn't yours?
Nacho cheese.
I groaned every time.
But I kept all the towels.
At eight years old, he already knew how to do a French braid.
Dad worked long shifts as a policeman, so Grandma often stayed with us. Sometimes he would arrive at my school shows still in his uniform, his radio clipped to his belt.
Once, at a father-daughter dance, he came straight from work and twirled me around on the gym floor with his big boots.
"You're crushing my toes," I whispered to him.
"Those toes are building your character, my little Josie."
Dad worked long shifts as a police officer.
Every time he left for duty, he would kiss me on the forehead.
"Whatever happens today, I will always find my way back to you, my darling."
And that's always what he did.
Until that rainy Friday evening.
He had promised me elephant-shaped pancakes for Sunday.
"Whatever happens today, I will always find my way back to you, my darling."
"With extra syrup," I reminded him.
"Enough syrup to warrant a lifeguard."
Those were the last words he ever said to me.
Around midnight, someone knocked on the door.
Glen stood under the porch, in his soaked uniform.
Dad's best friend since they were 12 years old. His partner for 15 years.
The man who ate our leftovers without asking permission and who called me "Short Stack".
Those were the last words he ever said to me.
That night, he couldn't cross the threshold.
He held his cap with both hands.
"My darling, I'm so sorry."
Dad had been injured while responding to an emergency.
He died in the ambulance.
The image of Granny clinging to the wall has remained etched in my memory, as has that of Glen catching her.
He died in the ambulance.
For months after that, he stayed close to us.
He repaired the porch railing which was loose.
He changed the batteries in our smoke detectors.
He was clearing the snow before Grandma woke up.
Then his visits became shorter.
He left vegetables from his garden on the steps.
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