Ruth closed her eyes.
She was smiling.
She died a little after four o’clock that afternoon, with the sun coming in through the little square window and lying warm across her hands.
We buried Ruth on a Saturday at St. Joseph’s Cemetery.
Catherine asked us all to come. Dr. Hale. Grandma. Sarah and me. Catherine’s husband and her two teenage boys, who kept staring at me like they couldn’t figure out who I was.
“He’s your cousin,” Catherine told them. “Sort of. It’s complicated. Just be nice.”
After the service, Grandma did something I didn’t expect.
She walked slowly across the cemetery, leaning on my arm, down to the little family plot at the end of the row. To the little white stone with only one word on it.
GRACE.
She laid down one white lily from Ruth’s funeral flowers.
“There,” she said softly. “Now you’ve met each other.”
