Instead of “How are your classes going?” or “I’ve missed seeing you,” the first thing she said to me was, “You’re planning to wear that to the funeral?” about the gray knit dress I’d chosen in my haste to leave Charlottesville. “What’s wrong with it?” I peered at her over the rim of my coffee mug. “You’re the one who bought if for me, remember?” “And I liked it then, before it was washed a few thousand times. Here,” she said, handing me a garment bag. “I picked this up for you yesterday.” I didn’t have the strength to argue with her, so I took the bag and headed upstairs to change. Naturally, the dress was perfect: a tailored black-linen sheath. A big-girl dress for a grown-up occasion. I dumped the contents of my jewelry pouch onto my bed and searched through the pile until I found my grandmother’s diamond studs and the single strand of pearls my father had given me for my sixteenth birthday.
