Four minutes.
Ordinary happiness.
I watched twice.
Then saved that one.
Why?
Because truth includes good days.
That does not cancel bad.
It completes person.
I sent it to Nia.
She replied:
Wow.
Then:
I remember that.
Then:
Keep it.
So I did.
Elaine died when I was eighty-one.
Heart failure.
I thought grief would feel familiar by then.
It did not.
Each person creates different absence.
Nia moved me closer to her family.
I objected.
Lost.
At eighty-four, I lived in small condo three blocks from her.
Amara, now twenty-four, visited often.
One afternoon she found old photograph of me, Nia, Renee, Malik and Zoe from early marriage.
“Who’s this?”
I pointed.
“Renee.”
“I know her.”
“No.”
“The guy.”
“Terrence?”
“No.”
“Malik?”
She laughed.
“I know Uncle Malik.”
Then she asked:
“What happened between you and Renee?”
Family had not told her whole story.
Nia left decision to me.
I gave simple version.
“She mistreated your mom when your mom was little.”
“I found out.”
“We divorced.”
“Did Grandma Renee say sorry?”
“Yes.”
“Did Mom forgive?”
“Eventually.”
“Did you?”
I smiled.
“Not everything needs same ending for everybody.”
Amara frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“Your mom rebuilt a limited relationship.”
“I didn't.”
“Both were okay.”
She thought.
“Were you angry?”
“Very.”
“Did you yell?”
“Not much.”
“I would have.”
“Maybe.”