Evelyn’s roses were blooming.
Robert’s chessboard sat in the library.
Thomas’s books filled the shelves.
Daniel was arguing with a cabinet hinge.
Claire stood beside me.
“I think she would be surprised.”
“By what?”
“That life wasn’t ruined because it didn’t happen the way she expected.”
That evening, rain began falling.
I stood beneath the porch roof and remembered 1973.
Thomas behind the school gym.
His hair dripping.
His clothes soaked.
“Margaret, someday I’ll buy you a diamond ring.”
“You don’t have any money.”
“I will.”
“You don’t even own a car.”
“I’ll get one.”
“You have a bicycle with a bent wheel.”
“That’s temporary.”
Then we walked two miles home together through the rain.
At seventy-one, I finally understood what mattered most about that memory.
It was not the promise.
Not the ring.
Not even Thomas.
It was the walking.
