The cedar chest in the attic smelled of dry heat and lavender sachets, a scent that always belonged to my mother but now belonged only to the dust. The late afternoon light came through the small octagonal window, cutting a yellow path through the floating dust motes that rose every time we moved a heavy wool blanket.
My sister Clara sat on a low wooden stool, her grey linen skirt pulled neat over her knees while she sorted the blankets into two piles. She tapped her reading glasses against her chin, her eyes narrowing at a yellowed quilt with frayed edges that our grandmother had stitched during the hard winter of forty-four.
“This one has no warmth left in it, Martha,” Clara said, her voice high and formal. “It is only holding onto the dirt now.”
I did not answer her, smoothing my blue cotton skirt over my thighs to quiet the fluttering in my stomach that always came when we started digging into the past. My fingers caught on the heavy plastic zipper of a black garment bag hidden beneath the winter coats at the very back of the deep trunk.
I pulled it into the dim light of the single bulb, sliding the zipper down to reveal the ivory graduation gown I had bought on a rainy Tuesday in the spring of 1968. The fabric was heavy, double-faced satin, still holding its creamy luster despite the decades of dark storage.
Clara stopped tapping her glasses against her chin and leaned forward, her shoulder tightening as she looked at the white collar.
“Why on earth is that still here?” she asked, her voice sharpening.
“I kept it because I couldn’t bear to let it go,” I said, my voice slow and soft. “I always thought there might be a reason to pull it out again.”
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