And there was a dress.
She bought it on the ninth of April, 2016, at Ferro’s on Vessel Street, with money from her job at the ice cream place. Bright red. Not a subtle red. A red you could see from a parking lot.
It cost sixty-four dollars, which for her was a lot, and she came home and put it on and made me sit on the end of the bed and look at it.
She was going to wear it under the gown. That was the plan. Gown on for the stage, gown off for the photos afterward, red dress in every picture.
She never wore it. It hung in her closet with the tag still on for ten years.
Cal was eight when his sister died.
Eight is a terrible age for it. Old enough to understand permanently, young enough that nobody thinks to ask him anything.
