It seemed as though the earth fell silent when my father’s heart ceased beating last spring—the kind of silence that smothers sound. He was the one who made me laugh every Sunday by burning pancakes, and he had been the comfort in every winter. I made an effort to convince myself that I could put up with the coldness she exuded in her perfume and the way her words always felt like sharpened blades when she remarried Carla two years ago.
I thought she would be sad when he passed away. She didn’t. She leaned in and said, “You’re embarrassing yourself,” as I sobbed by his casket during the funeral. He’s gone—everyone experiences it. Grief stopped me in my tracks when I wanted to scream. When she started “cleaning out clutter” a few weeks later, she threw his ties—paisley, striped, noisy, and full of him—into a garbage bag. I saved them that night, holding on to the cloth as if it still contained his heartbeat.
I taught myself to sew while sitting on the floor of my bedroom, surrounded by those ties, when prom rolled around. One by one, I stitched them together to create a skirt, a patchwork of my father’s life. Every silk strip had a backstory, such as the red tie from my middle school recital, the blue tie from his big interview, or the silly guitar print he wore every Christmas. I felt as though his love was around me when I zipped it up. Carla sneered at one glance.
“You’re dressed like that? Aren’t we constantly taking advantage of the orphan act? I left after biting my tongue. However, the skirt was in a shredded state on the floor of my closet the following morning, with the ties cut through and the seams torn open. Carla was drinking coffee in the doorway. “Awful,” she said. “You ought to give me credit.” My knees gave way. “You destroyed the last thing I had of him.” She didn’t recoil. “He’s no longer alive. He cannot be revived by ties. Perfume hung in the air like poison as she departed.
Minutes later, my best friend Mallory showed up with her mother, Ruth, a retired seamstress whose kind voice calms trembling hands. She sat cross-legged on my floor and started stitching without saying anything. Hours were spent putting the pieces back together. The skirt was shorter, rougher, and more attractive than before—a survivor—by the time the sun set.
I went to prom after pinning one of Dad’s cufflinks to the waistband. The silk shone like stained glass in the gym lights. I was stopped, questioned, and listened to. When I mentioned, “My dad’s ties,” the eyes of those around me grew softer. My English teacher, Mrs. Henderson, whispered, “He’d be proud of you,” as she slipped a ribbon for “Most Unique Attire” into my palm. I believed her for the first time in months.
The driveway throbbed with blue and red when I got home that evening. police lights. Officers at the entrance. They put Carla in handcuffs, and she stood white and shaking. “Identity theft and insurance fraud,” one officer stated. She had been using my father’s name to file fraudulent claims. She cried out that I had set her up, but it was obvious that this time, karma had done the stitching. The house is alive once more after several months.
Buttons, the cat, has taken Dad’s armchair, and Grandma moved in, bringing the smell of lavender and overrun eggs into the kitchen. With its exposed seams softly gleaming in the morning light, the tie skirt hangs on the door of my closet. I don’t cover up the wounds because they serve as a reminder that love is resilient and shines through the healing process. I feel my father’s warmth every time I touch that fabric; it’s not a fading memory, but something that has chosen to remain.
