“It was hiding the reason you survived long enough to become part of it,” I finished.
She placed her hand over mine.
“I’m sorry I made you feel unwanted.”
“I’m sorry I never asked whether you were scared too, Clara.”
Across the patio, Ariel drew with sidewalk chalk.
A crooked lighthouse rose from pink waves.
Inside it stood three smiling people.
I called over to her.
“Who’s that?”
She looked up, thrilled that I had asked.
“Family.”
Clara’s fingers tightened around mine.
The chalk picture remained on the patio until sunset blurred its edges.
I did not photograph it.
I did not need to.
Some things remain because someone preserves them.
Others remain because they finally make sense of everything that came before.
For years, Clara and I had stood on opposite sides of the same grief, each waiting for the other to cross the space between us.
