The Dress in the Attic
The oldest thing in my house was not the upright piano in the living room, though its ivory keys had yellowed with age. It was not the walnut clock that had belonged to my grandfather or the blue-and-white quilt my grandmother stitched by hand.
It was a simple ivory prom dress hanging inside a garment bag in the attic.
The dress had no lace train, crystal beads, or designer label. My mother, Rose, had sewn it at our dining room table in the spring of 1969. A narrow band of tiny seed pearls circled the waist.
I had worn it only once—to my senior prom with Daniel Bennett.
Every April, I climbed the attic stairs, opened the cedar chest, and lifted out the garment bag. I inspected the fabric, aired it beside the little round window, and wrapped it again in fresh tissue paper.
My friends stopped asking why long ago.
Some people called it stubbornness. Others thought I had allowed the past to take too much from me.
I called it keeping my word.
Daniel and I met when we were fifteen. He was the quiet boy who sat behind me in chemistry class and always carried two sharpened pencils. I was the girl who knew most of the answers but hated raising her hand.
During a test one morning, my pencil broke. Before I could panic, Daniel slid one of his across the desk without looking up.
After class, I tried to return it.
