I remembered the janitor who used to give me a quiet nod every morning back then. Same corridor. Same broom. Same reserved manner.
He still worked there. I had seen him at parent nights, older now, gray-haired, still nodding in that same way.
“Funny,” I said to the rearview mirror. “Some people just stay.”
I parked the car and smoothed down my shirt again.
In my mind, I imagined Hailey’s name being announced, her hand resting on my arm, our proud walk toward the stage.
I locked the car and slipped her program into my pocket, certain I understood how the day would unfold.
I did not know she had her own instructions hidden in her sleeve.
The principal approached the microphone, his voice carrying over the field.
“Each senior has chosen one person who helped them make it across this field. When your name is called, please step forward together.”
I adjusted my tie and sat taller. I had pictured this walk for years.
Name after name was called. Mothers, fathers, grandparents crossed the field with proud faces.
