The graduation invitation remained unopened for eleven days. I knew what it contained because Principal Webb had called twice, using the careful voice people used after my daughter died. June would have graduated with the class on Friday. Her cap and gown had been ordered before the winter accident, and the school wanted to know whether I wished to receive her diploma. I wanted June to walk across that stage. Every other option felt like accepting a substitute no one should have offered.
On Thursday evening, I slit the envelope with a butter knife. A smaller card fell out, handwritten by June's friend Mateo. He asked me to come to the Lantern Room at three, two hours before the ceremony. The room was an old art classroom with amber glass shades that made every table glow. June had spent lunch there repairing costumes, binding sketchbooks, and helping nervous students finish projects they had avoided.
I almost declined. My sister Ellen said I could attend the ceremony without visiting the room, collect the diploma, and leave through a side door. She had mapped the day as if grief were a building with accessible exits. I appreciated her effort and resented every detail. By midnight, I had placed June's silver hair clip in my purse, then taken it out three times.
Friday arrived bright and windy. I parked behind the gym where June once practiced parallel parking between trash bins. Students crossed the lot carrying gowns over their arms. A girl I did not know saw me, stopped laughing, and looked away. I nearly returned to the car. Then Mateo appeared at the art wing door. He wore paint-spattered sneakers beneath his graduation trousers and held a ring of keys. He said everyone was waiting, but no one would begin until I chose whether to enter.