I looked at it while applause filled the room.
One year earlier, I had sat in a graduation auditorium staring at four empty seats and believing they represented everything I lacked.
Parents who would not celebrate me.
A sister who did not understand me.
A grandmother who was gone.
I know better now.
Empty seats can mean many things.
Sometimes they mean abandonment.
Sometimes grief.
Sometimes freedom.
And sometimes the person who is missing from the chair has already placed herself so deeply inside your life that absence cannot remove her.
After the ceremony, Mom approached me.
“I have something for you.”
She handed me a small velvet box.
Inside was a brass key.
I recognized it immediately.
Grandma’s desk.
“What is this?”
“There’s another compartment.”
I laughed.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Mom smiled through tears.
“Opal loved dramatic secrets.”
Apparently.
Back home, Marisa and Mom joined me around the desk.
