Dark blue velvet, the dress you stitched for me,

with a white eyelet bib and a rounded lace collar.

I wore it once for midnight Christmas mass, kneeling

between you and Dad, holding a thin white candle in a cup.

That night, I felt like a gift, something treasured and worthy,

wrapped with intention and offered with love to the world.

I grew out of the dress two months after you made it,

the shoulders too tight, the new plastic zipper reluctant.

As my sleeve lengths stretched out and inseams matured,

you knit me a coat of prayers I couldn't grow out of, only grow into.

And wearing it now with its cuffs just right, I feel like a present,

wrapped with your warm intention and offered with love to the world.