from the beach.
They found the ice cream stand.
No one on staff remembered seeing her.
They found nothing.
The last thing Nora wore was a turquoise sarong that my mother had sewn for her that spring.
It was lightweight cotton, loose enough to be worn over a swimsuit.
My mother had embroidered Nora’s initials, NV, inside the bottom hem.
On the first day of this trip, Nora had caught a corner on a piece of driftwood and torn it.
My mother was with us.
She repaired the tear with a small, slightly crooked yellow sun.
Nora laughed when she saw that.
“It looks fun now.”
My mother replied, “It has a unique style.”
Nora rubbed the seam between her fingers and smiled.
“I prefer it when it’s damaged.”
That phrase stayed with me for years.
I had a photo of Nora wearing this sarong.
I took it for about
