Margaret Walks Across the High School Stage on a Warm June Morning
“If you are reading this, it means I did not make it to the stage,” she had written. “But I want you to go up there and take the paper for me, Mom. Stand in my place and do not let them hide the laughter.”
Brian stood very still beside me, the music box continuing its slow tune behind us. He reached out and took my hand, his palm warm and dry, his fingers locking between mine.
“She knew,” he whispered.
“She knew we would be afraid,” I said. “But she knew we would do it anyway.”
I folded the paper back into its neat square and placed it carefully inside the glass display case, right next to the photograph of the senior class with their red noses. The blue ink of her handwriting was visible through the glass, bright under the afternoon sun.
“We did what she asked us to do, Margaret,” Brian said.
“Yes,” I said. “We did.”
By six in the evening, the heat had started to lift from the backyard, leaving the air cool and sweet with the smell of the cut grass from the neighbor’s lawn. Brian and I walked out to the porch swing, carrying our mugs of lukewarm tea.
