Emma placed one hand on the cardboard shoulder.
“He was supposed to stand here today.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“But he died when we were sixteen.”
Somewhere behind me, a woman began crying.
Emma looked down at the envelope in William’s hands.
“Before he died, the principal wrote him a letter. It said that his determination made him a valued member of this school community. It said he would always have a place among his classmates.”
She turned toward William.
“You wrote that letter, sir.”
William nodded slowly.
“I remember.”
“Then I don’t understand something.”
Her voice became steadier.
“If he always had a place here, why was it so difficult to let me remember him today?”
William opened his mouth, but no words came.
Emma continued before he could answer.
“I asked whether his name could be mentioned at graduation. You said no. I asked whether we could display his photograph. You said no. I asked whether I could carry a small picture while receiving my diploma. You said no.”
