“Smartest person in the family.”
“Easily.”
Christmas morning was held at my house.
Melissa arrived first.
She brought cinnamon rolls.
“They’re Mom’s recipe,” she said.
I took one bite.
“No, they’re not.”
Her face fell.
“Too much cinnamon.”
“They’re terrible.”
“You’re terrible.”
“They need practice.”
She crossed her arms.
“Seven years away and you’re still impossible.”
“Some memories survive perfectly.”
She laughed.
Ten minutes later Calvin and Ava arrived.
Ava carried a handmade paper star.
“For Grandma Dorothy,” she said.
We placed it near Dorothy’s photograph on the mantel.
The urn was gone.
For years, its presence had been the center of that room.
Without it, the mantel looked strangely empty.
Melissa stood there a long time.
“I wish I remembered saying goodbye to Mom.”
I went beside her.
“She didn’t get to say goodbye to you either.”
“Do you think she knew?”
