We finish The Saturdays. My son perfects his mac-and-cheese recipe, my 5-year-old cleans the baseboards. We hop on and off the carousel of graduation parties, exchanging checks and poetry for food truck treats on hot June nights. At one, a surprise storm blows in and the girls dance in the rain while the boys kick off a mud football game. Like scurrying ants, parents run in thunder to roll up the windows of their SUVs. The hosts pass out spare towels as party favors.
I’m going to remember this forever, the graduate twirls, shrieking to the moon. I smile at her, my eyes wet. Me too.
