I ran my fingertips over the dress with the embroidered white flowers that I made for my wedding to James and laid it out on the bed. There was no way I could bring myself to wear that. It would be like committing adultery on James. I took James’s plaid shirt I’d worn the day he died. I hadn’t washed it since. I held it up to my face and breathed in deep, hoping to catch a trace of his scent, but it had faded away. Then I folded it up inside the wedding dress and packed them in the cedar chest Tommy made me. They were the only parts left of the dream James and I had lived.
