When she saw me among the crowd, she waved with both hands, just like she used to do when she was eight years old, from the window of the school bus. I excitedly waved back.
First, they gave Ava a call.
June was the last month.
Instead of grinning, she crossed the stage in the same manner that she had throughout her whole life, as though she were carrying something more substantial than the rest of us could perceive. Something more substantial than a degree.
I raised the camera. The shutter made a click. That was meant to be the end of it.
The dean then moved back to the microphone and gave it two taps.Before we close, we have one last presentation.
I brought the camera down.
That was meant to be the end of it.
Then my girls—or rather, young ladies—walked hand in hand back onto the stage, just like they used to do when they were five years old.
My chest constricted for no apparent reason.
June grabbed the microphone.”Our father was unable to attend today,” she remarked.
My stomach fell to the ground in that auditorium.
Daniel.
My chest constricted for no apparent reason.
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