There wasn’t a single stain, water mark or yellow spot on the satin.

The tiny lace collar was still crisp and stiff, and the thin ribbon at the neck was tied in a double bow no human hand had ever undone.

It was the gown my mother had spent three whole nights sewing out of the skirt of her own satin wedding dress in the spring of 1971.

I sat without moving, my hands lying flat on the cold Formica.

Fifty-five years ago, Pastor Higgins had walked beside me to the little nameless granite stone in the memorial garden and told me that holy ground was holding my baby.