There is a little girl in pink on the side of the pavement.

The parade marches on without acknowledging her presence except by throwing sweets into the air around her general vicinity, which she snatches with childlike jealousy from the rocky pavement before anyone else can reach them. Mother chases after, trying unsuccessfully to comb her tangled locks. Her hair is mussed, but her spirit is flying. It shows in her rosy face—the same shade as her dress.

The little pink girl in the little pink dress makes two corners in her little short skirt and hikes them way up, creating a kangaroo’s pouch in which to hold her most precious belongings—the claimed candies, and a stuffed dog that’s as old as she. Though the load is bulky, she shows no fear of damage to the dress. It is well-worn and experienced in holding such possessions. It will not tear.

The faithful little dress is a creation of auntie’s—a going away present, in fact. Rough needlework frames impossibly colored bears: blue, green, and orange—they make a jarring picture. But never mind that, because auntie did her best. She doesn’t have time to go out to buy fancy cloths for her niece, so she makes do with what scraps she finds around her tiny 7th floor apartment complex.

Every stitch, no matter how jagged, is painstakingly threaded, likely done in the middle of the night, after work and studying and housecleaning and cooking and the perpetual need of auntie’s presence, whether it is by her husband, her daughter, or her senile old mother, who never fails to put her socks in the fish bowl and her phone on the toilet. All for a little pink dress, for a little pink girl.

Mismatched fabrics and uneven handiwork; Sleepless nights and aching fingers; Meticulous care and simple love. I suppose they make the dress precious.