I Sewed My Prom Dress From My Late Father's Work Shirts—My Classmates Called It Janitor's Rags, Until the Principal Stopped the Music and the Whole Room Went Silent

I didn't know how.

Aunt Kaitlyn found me a secondhand sewing machine.

Ms. Kaplan, the textiles teacher, let me use the classroom after hours.

I stitched at the kitchen table until two in the morning more nights than I can count.

I cut the sleeves into tiers.

I turned the cuffs into pockets that sat on my hips.

I kept every button.

Every shirt had little things in its pockets.

Gum wrappers.

A broken pencil.

And small slips of paper, folded in quarters, in my father's square handwriting.

I thought they were notes about supplies.

I couldn't throw out anything he had touched.

So I sewed the pockets back exactly the way they were, with the slips still inside.

When I finished and looked in the mirror, the dress stood out around me in soft blue and gray and plaid.

I felt like he was standing right behind me with his hands on my shoulders.