She looked down.
Then whispered.
“Me too.”
I put one arm gently around her shoulders.
For a moment, we sat quietly.
Then she looked up.
“But it's different now.”
I smiled faintly.
“How?”
Rosie considered.
“Before, I thought about Mom being gone all the time.”
I nodded.
“And now?”
She looked toward the patch.
“Now sometimes I think about how she helped us find each other.”
My throat tightened.
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Then I whispered.
“I think about that too.”
Later that afternoon, the organizers gathered everyone for a brief remembrance.
Bishop spoke about Evan's work as an emergency medical technician.
He described the kind of person Evan had been.
Patient.
Kind.
Willing to help without demanding attention.
Then Evelyn shared a few words about Mara.
She talked about her love for children.
Her drawings.
Her terrible singing voice.
And the way she always added too much lemon to dinner.
The crowd laughed softly.
I stood near the edge of the gathering with Rosie beside me.
I hadn't planned to speak.
Public speeches weren't my strength.
I could argue about motorcycles for hours.
But put a microphone in my hand and ask me to explain my feelings, and I'd rather rebuild an engine in the rain.
Then Rosie tugged my sleeve.
“Grandpa?”
I looked down.
“Yes?”
“Can I say something?”
I studied her.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded.
I looked toward Evelyn.
The older woman smiled gently.
Then Rosie stepped toward the microphone with an organizer beside her.
She was small.
Her yellow raincoat made her easy to see among the dark motorcycle jackets.
For a moment, she looked frightened.
Then she took a breath.
“My name is Rosie.”
The crowd became quiet.
She continued.
“My dad helped people when they were hurt.”
Her voice trembled.
“And my mom helped me when I was scared.”
For a moment, she looked toward Evelyn.
Then toward me.
“I didn't get to meet my dad.”
The words hurt.
She continued.
“And my mom died last year.”
For several seconds, the gathering remained silent.
Rosie swallowed.
“But before she died, she told me about my grandpa.”
I closed my eyes.
She looked toward me.
“He lives far away, and he rides a motorcycle.”
A few people smiled.
Rosie continued.
“Mom said he came when she called him, even when things were really bad.”
My throat tightened.
She took a breath.
“So I wrote him a letter.”
The crowd remained quiet.
“And he came when I called too.”
For a moment, she seemed emotional.
Then she smiled.
“I think helping people is something my family does.”
I covered my face.