I remember you. You took me to that shop in the Nine Streets of Amsterdam and after maybe ten minutes and one glance we had found our match: a beautiful weight of silver silk that you turned into my wedding dress. Long cut with an empire waist and a décolleté so deep you had to customise a bra to go with it. And fifteen silk buttons, that you carefully placed at the back of the dress. You must have buttoned and unbuttoned those fifteen buttons countless times until my husband finally did.
Mark Twain said, “Biographies are but the clothes and buttons of the man. The biography of the man himself cannot be written.”
Thank you for my tiny part in your biography.
Rest in peace, talented young man.
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