The next day,
high heels in hand,
Dylan’s tux jacket on,
home to find
Mom and Dad
in the living room,
sewing machine out.
Him hunched over it, stitching.
Her in a sea of fabrics
and feathers.
Mom said they decided
to make a costume together.
Just for fun.
I watch Dad press his foot on the pedal.
I watch Mom cut.
They argue over the true hue of chartreuse.
Laugh about the thunderstorm during the parade the year they met.
They work for hours.
April helps me make dinner.
When they’re done,
a mask of petals,
tail of stems,
Dad says it isn’t their finest work.
Mom agrees.
But I think it is.