She keeps it in her desk.
Not because she wants to become a judge.
Because Grandpa gave it to her.
Objects are allowed to mean only that.
Last Christmas, Grace came home from college.
We cooked together.
She ruined the rolls.
I overcooked the turkey.
Nobody cared.
When everything was ready, she started carrying dishes into the dining room.
I reached for another platter.
She slapped my hand away.
“Sit.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve been cooking since six.”
“Five thirty.”
“Even worse.”
“I can carry a plate.”
“I know.”
She pointed toward my chair.
“Sit.”
I laughed.
Then I did.
Sometimes I wonder what Sylvia would think if she could see me now.
Then I realize I don’t care.
That is another kind of freedom.
My daughter sat beside me.
Friends filled the other chairs.
Dad’s old photograph stood on the sideboard.
Not his official portrait.
I hated that one.
