What Eli Was Really Making
His mother let me in and silently pointed upstairs.
I opened his bedroom door.
He had fallen asleep at the sewing machine.
His cheek rested against the table. One hand still clutched a spool of thread.
The photographs I had sent him were printed and spread across the floor. Names were circled in pencil.
Behind him stood the dress.
Ivory. Structured. Covered in roses blooming down the skirt like a garden grown overnight.
I stepped closer.
Inside one rose, I noticed tiny stitches.
Words, perhaps. Hidden deep within the folds.
I reached toward it.
Then stopped.
This was not mine to open.
I draped a blanket over Eli and switched off the lamp.
As I walked home through the darkness, understanding finally settled over me.
He was not making a dress.
He was making something for which I had no name.
