I closed the suitcase.
Opened it again.
The shirt was still soft, expensive, and entirely too emotionally active for an item of clothing.
I put it over the desk chair.
That looked like an exhibit.
I moved it onto the dresser.
It landed beside Molly’s photograph.
No.
I put it on.
The hem reached the tops of my thighs.
In the mirror, I looked like someone who had lost control of both her wardrobe and the narrative.
A knock sounded.
Mom entered before I answered.
Her eyes went directly to the shirt.
“Is that hers?”
“It could belong to anyone.”
“You buy T-shirts in packs of three.”
“I value consistency.”
She sat on the edge of the bed and patted the space beside her.
“I’ve been sitting all day.”
“You inherited stubbornness from your father.”
“I assumed he inherited it from me.”
“You developed it independently.”
I sat.
For a while, we looked at Molly’s photograph.
“She hated that dress,” Mom said.
“We both did.”
“She said the sleeves made her look like a decorative lamp.”
“She was right.”
“She hid crackers in her bouquet.”
