All I could think about was what dress to wear. As though I would somehow be meeting you for the first time at the doctor’s office. Emerald green, no. Paisley, hell no. Hot pink, too happy. Probably part of me knew that it wasn’t about the dress. It never is about the dress. But I kept on judging each one in my closet until I settled on an ivory floral print. Pretty, but not too happy.
Tracing maroon flowers (I hate maroon) on the soft fabric, I muttered words that I never thought I would be forced to say. Looking into crystal clear eyes of a doctor that has been in my life longer than you ever will be, I reluctantly agreed.
And in a sterile white room on a rainy thundering Midwest day in an ivory floral dress, I said goodbye to so much more than you. Mascara fell down my cheek, laying itself to rest in the delicate ivory ruffles.
It never is about the dress.