Coronado.
Ryan stood in his dress whites after receiving his Trident.
Mom and Dad stood beside him.
I was at the end.
Still in black.
Still exhausted.
Still unaware the photograph existed.
Ryan was looking at the camera.
I was looking at him.
On the back, in his handwriting, were nine words.
You were always in the front row. I just didn’t see you.
I sat at my desk a long while, holding that photograph.
Then I placed it in the top drawer.
Not because everything was healed.
It wasn’t.
