Jennifer snorted softly. “True.” Then, more gently, “Also partly because everyone in this family finally got too tired to keep performing the same roles.”
The next Memorial Day arrived almost before Michael was ready for it.
Time has a way of preserving anniversaries even when the people involved would prefer a longer gap. In the week beforehand, Michael found himself bracing for a recurrence of the cemetery scene, only to discover that fear had less fuel than before. June called three days early and asked, “Would it be all right if we all went together?” The fact that she asked mattered. Eleanor, when Michael relayed the question, was quiet long enough that he thought the answer would be no. Then she said, “Yes. If she can stand me and I can stand her.”
On Memorial Day morning, the weather was almost identical to the year before.
Bright sun. White headstones. Small flags. The distant drone of bagpipes. Michael noticed the symmetry with some suspicion, as if the universe were testing whether anyone had actually learned. He met Eleanor at her house, then drove to the cemetery where June was already parked. This time there were no surprises. They walked in together carrying one arrangement chosen jointly at a florist the day before: white lilies, blue delphinium, and a few peonies at Eleanor’s insistence.
At the grave, no one reached the stone first.
They stood side by side for a moment, reading the name they all knew by heart. Michael set the shared arrangement at the base. June tucked the stems straighter. Eleanor brushed a fallen blade of grass from the top edge of the stone. The gestures overlapped without comment.
“Thirty-two years ago,” Eleanor said finally, “he made me drive two hours in labor because he was convinced the local hospital would lose the baby.”