I could copy the color.
I could copy every inch of the design.
But I could never copy that.
My father finally came over.
“Daughter…
I looked at him.
I was crying.
I should have stopped this.
I didn’t respond immediately.
Because he was right.
Weeks later, my father and Shirley separated.
But that was no longer the most important part for me.
The important part happened that same night.
Gary extended his hand.
Do you want to leave?
I looked at the exit.
Then I looked at the clue.
Then I lowered my eyes to Mom’s dress.
I denied.
“No.
“No?
I smiled in tears.
“My mom spent too much time making this dress for me to leave before I dance with him.
Gary smiled.
“Then let’s dance.
We walked to the track.
And while the music was beginning, for the first time I stopped looking at Shirley.
I stopped looking at my father.
I stopped looking at the people who murmured.
I looked at the dress.
I ran my fingers through one of the little seams that Mom had done by hand.
And I thought:
“Yes, Mom. I’m here.”
That night I learned something I still remember.
There are people who believe they can take the place of someone by removing their photographs.
Keeping your things.
Copying her dresses.
Trying to erase his memories.
But true love doesn’t work like that.
He doesn’t live in photographs alone.
Not even in houses.
Not even in dresses.
He lives in us.
Shirley got a near-perfect copy of my mother’s last dress for me.
But he only managed to copy the cloth.
Because every time I think about that night again, I don’t remember two women wearing the same dress.
I remember one thing:
