It was about 10:45, choir rehearsal was over and we were released into the corridor where the Sunday School class had just released and people were heading into the church. I was talking to another chorister when Dad and his entourage passed by.
He paused for a moment.
"I'll talk to you after the service," he said. "I'm going to stay late a minute and take a picture of the flowers."
"Right."
And then he was off, swept along down the hall.
Right, flowers. September 14. I remembered.
It's not that I don't think about her, I do. I'm always seeing things, hearing things that bring her to mind. We converse frequently. But she did not give me reminder about this day.
My mind wandered as it often does during the service. I always look down from the choir loft. Mom and Dad were almost always in the same pew, their silver hair easy to spot only it's just Dad's now. I think of Mom's ashes in her garden, just outside the new stained glass doors, certainly within range of the organ and choir.
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