I made my prom dress from my late father's old uniform - but what I found hidden in the fabric shocked me.
He remained close to us.
He dropped off some birthday cards for us.
He fixed things when we weren't there.
He always left before dinner.
Every time Grandma invited him in, he gave the same answer.
"It's okay, Ellen."
After a while, I stopped paying attention to how often he said that.
"It's okay, Ellen."
***
Prom season arrived during my final year of high school.
My girlfriends flooded our discussion group with photos of evening gowns, high heels, and dramatic warnings about satin.
I tried on 12 dresses.
One of them made me look like a lampshade.
The other one was magnificent. That was precisely the problem.
She was beautiful, but that didn't mean anything.
Dad should have been there to complain about the price, scrutinize my riding coat and cry while pretending to have dust in both eyes.
She was beautiful, but that didn't mean anything.
One rainy afternoon, I opened Grandma's cupboard to look for an umbrella.
At the very bottom, there was a clothes bag.
I knew what was inside before I even touched it.
Dad's uniform had a faint scent of cedar.
I pressed the jacket against my face and sat down on the floor.
My grandmother found me there.
For a few minutes, she stood silently beside me.
Dad's uniform had a faint scent of cedar.
Then I whispered, "What if he could still take me to the prom?"
She knelt down.
I showed him the jacket.
"We could make a dress, Nana."
Grandma touched the badge.
This uniform had become sacred, for it was one of the few things that death had not disrupted.
"We could make a dress out of it, Nana."
"I don't know if I'll be able to cut it up, darling," she said.
" Me neither. "
The rain was drumming against the window.
Finally, she smiled through her tears.
"Your father ruined three saucepans learning how to make pancakes. He thought mistakes could turn into breakfast."
" Me neither. "
***
That Saturday, the uniform was laid out on the dining room table.
The jacket would form the bodice. The trousers would become the skirt panels. We would keep the silver buttons and sew Dad's registration number inside, just above my heart.
Grandma made the first cut with the scissors.
Then something cracked under the lining.
Grandma made the first cut with the scissors.
***
Dad's letter was now in my hands.
I read the following paragraph.
"I've known Glen since we were twelve years old."
He's the kind of idiot who will shovel your driveway before remembering he didn't even shovel his own.
He will tell you that he has already eaten because he doesn't want you to cook twice.
If he says he's tired, believe him.
If he says he's fine... don't believe him.
Grandma started to cry.
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