A few months before the ball, he lost his battle with cancer and died before I could get to the hospital.
I found out as I stood in the hallway of the school, my backpack on my shoulders.
I remember noticing that linoleum looked exactly like the one Dad was passing through the mop, and then I have little in mind after that.
A few months before the end of the year ball, he lost his battle with cancer.
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***
The week after the funeral, I moved in with my aunt. The guest room smelled like cedar and softening it, and didn’t look anything like my house.
The end-of-year ball season came suddenly, taking over all the conversations. The girls at school compared their designer dresses and shared screenshots of clothes that cost more than a month of my father’s salary.
I felt completely disconnected from all of this. The end of the year ball was supposed to be our moment: I leave the house while my father took too many photos.
Without him, I didn’t know what it was.
The ball was supposed to be our moment.
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One evening, I sat down with the box containing his belongings that the hospital had sent home: his wallet, his watch with cracked glass and, at the bottom, carefully folded as he always folded everything, his work shirts.
Blues, greys and the washed-out green one that I remembered for years. We used to joke about saying that his closet only contained shirts. He said that a man who knows what he needs doesn’t need much else.
I sat there, a shirt in my hand for a long time. Then the idea came to me, clear and sudden, as if she was waiting for me to be ready to receive her: if Dad could not be at the ball, I could take her with me.
My aunt didn’t think I was crazy, which I really enjoyed.
We used to joke about the fact that his closet only contained shirts.
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“I can barely sew, Aunt Hilda,” I said.
“I know. I’ll teach you. »
That weekend, we spread Dad’s shirts on the kitchen table, with his old man needed to sew between us, and we got to work. It took longer than expected.
I cut the fabric wrongly twice and had to undo a whole part late at night and start over. Aunt Hilda stayed by my side and did not say a discouraging word. She just guided my hands and told me when to slow down.
My aunt stayed by my side and didn’t say a word to discourage me.
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Some nights I cried silently while I was working. Other nights, I spoke out loud to Dad.
My aunt didn’t hear me or decided not to talk about it.
Every piece I cut had a special meaning. The shirt Dad was wearing on the day I got home in high school, standing outside our front door, telling me I was going to succeed, even if I was terrified.
The washed-out green shirt he wore the afternoon he ran next to my bike longer than his knees would have liked. The gray shirt he was wearing the day he hugged me after the worst day of my first year, without asking me any questions.
Cette robe était un catalogue de sa vie. Chaque couture en était le reflet.
Chaque pièce que j’ai coupée portait quelque chose.
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La veille du bal, je l’ai terminée.
I put it on and I stood in front of the mirror of my aunt’s hallway, and for a long time I just looked at myself.
It was not a designer’s dress. Far from it. But it was sewn from all the colors that my father had ever worn. She suited me perfectly, and for a moment, I felt like Dad was there with me.
My aunt appeared in the doorway. She stayed there, surprised.
“Nicole, my brother would have loved it,” she said while sniffing. “He would have completely lost his mind… in the right way. It’s beautiful, sweetheart. »
Il était cousu de toutes les couleurs que mon père avait jamais portées.
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Je l’ai lissé avec mes deux mains.
