I told myself that was something to be grateful for, and then I drove to her house and sat in her kitchen for two hours without moving because I didn’t know what else to do.
Grandma Rose was the first person who’d ever loved me unconditionally and without limit. Losing her felt like losing gravity, like nothing would stay in its place without her underneath it all.
A week after the funeral, I went back to pack up her belongings.
Losing her felt like losing gravity.
I worked through the kitchen, the living room, and the small bedroom she’d slept in for 40 years. And at the back of her closet, behind two winter coats and a box of Christmas ornaments, I found the garment bag.
I unzipped it, and the dress was exactly as I remembered: ivory silk, lace at the collar, and pearl buttons down the back. It still smelled faintly of Grandma.
I stood there for a long time, holding it against my chest. Then I remembered the promise I’d made at 18 on that porch, and I didn’t even have to think about it.
I was wearing this dress. Whatever alterations it took.
I found the garment bag.
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