“It’s not a blue dress; it’s indigo,” she interrupts. “I chose this shade because it comes from Persicaria tinctoria, which is a flower like buckwheat that my mother collected while she was in Japan and brought back to Amsterdam for cultivation.” We stare at each other, the silence between us thick and fragile. Hearing that Latin classification from her lips is like a melody from childhood, half-remembered and suddenly played in full. Things I did not know had been askew fall back into place inside me. I miss you, I want to say.
