I woke to the first cold morning of fall. The corkboard above my desk still held coupons my mother mailed me before she passed – all expired now.
I spent the day filling in for a fourth-grade class that didn't want me there. By three o'clock I felt like a ghost in my own life.
I almost skipped my youngest sister's graduation. But I drove the forty minutes to the university, arriving just as the processional started.
The sky did something strange – snow, fine and hesitant, began to fall. My sister crossed the stage in her black gown, and I watched snowflakes settle on her shoulders.
She saw me in the crowd and gave a tiny wave. Afterward, she hugged me tight and said, 'You always come.' Just that.
On the drive home, I tried to remember the last time someone said they could count on me.
I pinned tonight's program to the corkboard, right over the expired coupons. It's not much, but it's true.