The nephew who had read the psalm got married. Vera went. Keisha went. They sat on the bride’s side because the groom’s side was full. Full was a relief. Nobody left a chair empty for a meaning. The meaning was vows. Vera listened to the vows and did not flinch. Flitching would have made the day about a toothbrush. The day was about two people who were young. She wished them the ordinary. Ordinary was her highest wish now. Keisha held her hand at the part about forsaking. The hold was brief. Brief was enough. They ate cake. The cake was too sweet. Sweet was fine. They drove home the ordinary way. No tax. The tax was for days that needed it. This day did not.
Raymond’s birthday passed without a post. Vera did not post. Keisha did not post. Nadine did not post. The not-posting was three women in agreement they would never make. Agreement was accidental and correct. Vera bought a small plant for the step to replace nothing. She did not say happy birthday to a absence. Absence did not get a party. The boy asked why Grandma was quiet. Keisha said Grandma was thinking. True. Enough. They colored. The car with too many wheels had faded on the fridge. Vera did not take it down. Faded was a life. She left it.
Winter. The parlor sent a card about a memorial light. Vera threw the card out. Lights were a upsell. She had a kitchen bulb that worked. She replaced it when it buzzed. Buzzing was a fact. Facts she trusted. Keisha came for soup. The soup was Ruth’s recipe and Vera’s salt. They ate. The radio played low. No game he would have called. The not-calling was old now. Old was a mercy. Vera said, “I don’t wait for the phone.” Keisha said, “I know.” The know was the daughter who had refused the aisle’s silence. They were past the explosion. They were in the after. The after was soup. Vera had said he took enough years. She was spending the new ones on purpose. A bulb. A salt. A hand at a vow. A chair that was a chair. The locket was not in the house. That absence was the one she had ordered. It held.