Whenever I travel back home, a black dress finds its place in my suitcase.
Returning to my hometown means stepping into a place where every life touches another. A new baby arrives. Two hands join. A table fills. A chair sits empty. People gather for every chapter, carrying casseroles, flowers, homegrown vegetables, stories, familiar glances.
The black dress waits, ready for the moments no one places on a calendar. It comes with respect. Presence. Compassion.
Each gathering reminds me that a family is measured by being there. Faces change. Generations shift. Names become memories spoken aloud across folding tables, church pews, front yards.
The black dress is folded between my other clothes and packed once more into my suitcase for the journey home.
It is never the dress I wish to wear.
Still, it travels between homes.
Leave a Reply