Nothing elaborate.
A small brass plaque carries one sentence chosen from one of her recorded conversations.
It reads:
TIME IS THE ONLY GIFT YOU MUST BE PRESENT TO GIVE.
The first time I saw it, I accused Clara of choosing something sentimental.
“She said it.”
“She also said the neighbor’s dog looked judgmental. We could have used that.”
“We considered it.”
I laughed.
Then we sat.
The mansion belonged to another family by then.
The company had changed.
People had come and gone.
The world had continued without asking permission.
I used to think permanence was something wealth could purchase.
A house.
A company.
A name engraved in stone.
I know better now.
The most important things in my life survived because they changed.
My memory of my father changed.
My understanding of my mother changed.
My definition of family changed.
Even my understanding of Clara changed.
She had entered my house wearing a housekeeping uniform and carrying a secret.
