years, that dress remained where she left it. Every spring, as the air turned sweet with the scent of blooming flowers and the local high school buzzed with prom fever, I would find myself in her room. I would touch the fabric, tracing the line of the pearls, and picture her dancing in it. It was a ritual of grief, a way to hold onto a version of her that hadn’t been swallowed by the mud and the rain.
Eventually, my therapist suggested that holding onto her belongings was preventing
