***
The next afternoon, Maribel called to ask if the photographer could keep her out of “the important pictures.”
“Nana,” Mason said, putting her on speaker while I folded place cards at the table, “there are no important pictures without you in them.”
The truth hung heavy between us.
A soft laugh came through the phone.
“Sweet boy. Young people should be the ones everyone remembers.”
Mason looked at me.
The place card in my hand bent down the middle.
She said the same thing the next day about the reception.
“Young people should be the ones everyone remembers.”
“I may leave after dinner, dear.”
Then about the family portraits.
“I’ll stand in the back.”
Then about visitors.
“Tell everyone I’m resting.”
No one sentence sounded tragic.
That was the worst part.
No one sentence sounded tragic.
Each one was small enough to excuse.
Together, they became a door closing by inches.
Maribel had spent her whole life opening doors for other people.
When Mason was little and terrified of school, she walked him to the classroom every morning until he stopped gripping her coat.
