lots of dresses don’t remember being made, but I do. I don’t know if it’s because it took her so long, or if it was because she was thinking so hard about me, but I remember everything. I remember the first shock of the scissors and the needle melding the thread into me and the heavy wet heat of the iron—everything. I remember how vague I felt when my seams were all still unfinished, before I was hemmed, or had buttons. but I wish I could remember the first minute when I knew I was going to be a dress.
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