You wore the itchy shirt. The one from picture day, the one that made your neck red. You hate that shirt. But you put it on anyway, for her, and you didn't even complain. I would have complained.
Everybody is so quiet. You are quiet too. You are good at it now, the sitting still, the folding your hands. You used to swing your legs and get told to stop. You don't swing your legs anymore.
There are flowers everywhere and nobody is going to smell them. I want to smell them. Are you going to smell one, later, when nobody looks? Please smell one.
You keep almost saying something and then not saying it. You do that a lot, I think. You have a lot of words folded up inside your itchy shirt.
Then a man stands up and it's you. You. You talk about her and your voice goes wobbly and you don't hide it, you just let everybody see. You told a story about her that I forgot we had. You remembered it for both of us.
I thought grown-ups didn't cry. I thought that was the whole point of getting big.
You cried anyway, in front of everyone, and you kept talking. That's the bravest thing I ever saw you do. Braver than the high dive. Braver than the dark hallway.
Will you smell a flower for me before you go?