I remembered those hands passing me notes in algebra class.
I remembered the pinky he had held out beneath the football bleachers.
Sixty.
We had thought sixty was impossibly old.
Now it had arrived like the final page of a book we’d forgotten we were writing.
Douglas looked toward Lucas.
“Show her the other side.”
“The other side?”
Lucas nodded toward the photograph.
I turned it over again.
At first, I saw only the date and the names.
Then Lucas pointed toward the lower corner.
There was something else written there in faded blue ink.
So small I hadn’t noticed it.
I brought the photograph closer.
Three words.
Forgive me someday.
My throat closed.
My mother’s handwriting.
I knew every curve of it.
She’d written my birthday cards that way.
Shopping lists.
Permission slips.
Little notes tucked into lunches when I was a child.
Don’t forget your sweater.
