Older.
Gray at the temples.
Moving more slowly.
But still there.
I must have passed that man hundreds of times in my life.
Maybe thousands.
And I had never once stopped long enough to really look at him.
That afternoon, I found my seat near the front.
Lily had gone to line up with the graduating class.
Before disappearing beneath the stadium tunnel, she turned around.
“Front row?” she called.
“Always.”
She pressed her hand over her heart.
I did the same.
It was our little tradition.
Then she disappeared.
I sat down and unfolded the graduation program.
