“Who’s that?”
She looked up, thrilled that I had asked.
“Family.”
Clara’s fingers tightened around mine.
The chalk picture remained on the patio until sunset blurred its edges.
I did not photograph it.
I did not need to.
Some things remain because someone preserves them.
Others remain because they finally make sense of everything that came before.
For years, Clara and I had stood on opposite sides of the same grief, each waiting for the other to cross the space between us.
It took a child pointing at a lighthouse to show us where the doorway had always been.
