And I was taking pictures with his phone.
The murmurs started immediately.
“What…?”
Shirley looked desperately at Gary.
“WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?
Gary remained calm.
Someone thought she deserved to know the truth.
My father was looking at the screen.
He seemed unable to move.
Shirley started talking quickly.
It is not what it seems!
No one answered.
“I just wanted to pay tribute.
I heard a woman say,
A tribute?
Another person murmured:
“Then why did you hide it?”
Shirley came down from the furious stage.
He came over to me.
“You did this.
I denied.
“No.
And for the first time that night I could look at her without fear.
You did this alone.
Gary came over.
But it didn’t come empty-handed.
I was bringing a little box.
“There’s something else.
He handed it to me.
What is it?
My mom kept it for years.
I didn’t understand.
Gary took a deep breath.
Your mom gave it to her before she died. He asked her to wait until the time has come.
I opened the box.
Inside was an envelope.
I immediately recognized the lyrics.
It was my mom’s.
My hands started shaking.
I opened the letter.
I couldn’t read it full aloud.
The tears didn’t leave me.
But there was a part I never forgot.
My mom said that maybe someday someone would try to convince me that our memories could be replaced.
That things could be lost.
That a house could change.
That even a dress could break or disappear.
But there was something that no one could copy or take away from me:
the love with which it had been created.
I took the letter to my chest.
I didn’t care anymore that Shirley carried a copy.
I looked at our dresses.
They were almost identical.
But for the first time that night I understood the difference.
His had been commissioned to compete with me.
Mine had been sewn by a sick woman who knew she probably would never see me use it.
Every stitch had cost effort.
Time.
Pain.
And love.
Shirley could copy the fabric.
