Nobody in my family had ever graduated from anything. Not high school, not a trade program, nothing with a cap and gown.
My father showed up in a tie he'd clearly borrowed. The knot was crooked and the tail hung longer than the front.
He sat in the back row of the gymnasium with his hands on his knees, looking like he was waiting to be told where to go.
When they called my name, he stood up. He didn't clap. He just stood there with his mouth open.
He didn't sit back down. Not for the rest of the ceremony, not while two hundred other names were read.
Afterward I found him by the bleachers, still standing. He grabbed my shoulders and looked at my face like he was checking whether it was really me.
He said, 'I didn't know what to bring you.' He was holding a gas station rose wrapped in cellophane.
I kept it on my dresser for three years until the petals turned to dust. I never had the heart to throw it out while he was still alive.