The base fabric was a silk crepe I had been saving for two years — not metaphorically saving, literally saving, folded in an acid-free sleeve inside a flat storage box under my workbench. I had bought it at a closeout from a small mill that was closing. Thirty-two yards, dove-gray-white, weight and drape that felt like cold water when I held it up to the light.
The silhouette was a column with a subtle A-line flare starting below the knee. No boning. No structure. The whole thing depended on the cut and the bias and understanding exactly where a seam needed to fall to do its job without announcing itself. I made four muslins before I cut the silk. Four. Each one taught me something. Each one went into a bag labeled with a date and a note.
The embroidery was the part that took the most time. I did it on the sleeve cuffs and along the detachable overskirt hem: botanical motifs, very fine, done in silk thread in three shades that shifted depending on the light. Ferns. Small flowers I couldn’t exactly name. Some leaves that were half-real and half-invented. I worked on it in the evenings after work, sometimes for an hour, sometimes for twenty minutes when that was all I had. From January to September. Nine months.
Ben used to sit on the other end of the couch while I stitched, watching something on his laptop with headphones on, occasionally reaching over to refill my tea without being asked. That is also a version of him I want to remember. The ordinary weeknight version. The one that existed before we were married and continued to exist after, without ceremony.