Chapter 7 - The Dress
The restored dress took four months.
I changed almost everything.
The stained section became embroidered branches.
Silver beads became small leaves.
I added pieces of fabric from Mom’s old sewing box.
Inside the hem, I stitched a sentence she used to say:
Make something from what remains.
Priya cried when she saw it.
Dad cried harder.
“I’m surrounded by emotionally unstable people,” I said.
Dad wiped his eyes.
“You look like your mother.”
That ended the joke.
I entered the dress into Westbridge’s spring student art exhibition.
Not fashion.
Art.
Title:
WHAT REMAINS
Medium:
Donated textile, thread, glass beads, stains.
The art teacher read the description.
“You’re leaving ‘stains’?”
“Yes.”
“Some people might think that’s strange.”
“They’re part of it.”
At the exhibition, people stood in front of the dress.
Some knew the story.
Others didn’t.
One woman asked:
“Why didn’t you remove all the discoloration?”
“Couldn’t.”
“Does that bother you?”
I thought.
“No.”
That was true.
Victoria attended.
She stopped ten feet away.
I saw her.
She looked at the dress for a long time.
Then approached me.
“You fixed it.”
“I changed it.”
She nodded.
“That’s better.”
We stood together awkwardly.
Finally she said:
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
She started to leave.
“Victoria.”
She turned.
“I forgive you.”
Her face changed.
I continued quickly.
“That doesn’t mean what happened was okay.”
“I know.”
“And we’re not suddenly friends.”
“I know.”
“And if you ever dump garbage on me again—”
She laughed unexpectedly.
“Understood.”
Then her eyes filled.
“Thank you.”
May you like
Forgiveness did not feel like giving her something.
It felt like putting down something I was tired of carrying.
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