very bottom, wrapped in brown paper, something I was never allowed to touch.
I looked at Grandma.
“You brought this?”
“For Lily.”
My eyes filled.
“Grandma, she’s one. She can’t sew.”
Grandma gave me a look.
“Neither could you at one.”
That was fair.
I opened the clasp.
The top tray still held buttons.
Dozens of them.
Pearl.
Wood.
Blue glass.
Tiny red ones shaped like flowers.
Underneath were folded pieces of fabric.
I lifted the first.
A small white dress.
Yellow flowers embroidered around the collar.
My breath caught.
I knew it.
Mom whispered, “No.”
It was the dress from the photograph.
The photograph Grandma had kept beside her chair for years.
Me at four years old, standing on her front step.
Wearing that dress.
I touched the stitching.
“You kept it?”
Grandma looked offended.
“Of course I kept it.”
“For 38 years?”
“Things don’t spoil just because people
