I had brought some photos to add to the memorial display. A picture of my grandparents at Cornell that I’d taken from the wall in Grandpa’s old office. The self-portrait that usually hung on the guest bedroom wall. And one of the photos we’d taken at the rehab center: Dad, Joan, and me, our arms around her. The film hadn’t advanced properly, so the three of us were on the bottom half of the picture. The top half showed a skewed image of the wall above the bed lit by the bedside lamp. I liked the way our heads were half transparent, merging into the lamp with the light shining up.

This was supposed to be a personal memorial service for family and close friends, so only about a dozen others came. A few of Joan’s artist friends and their partners; a couple of Grandpa’s best friends and their wives; Tony Merritt, who squeezed my shoulder. A couple of women I might have seen at Spirit Rock, who came with the Buddhist teacher, Susan Douglas. She had short gray hair and kind eyes, and she carried a Tibetan singing bowl on a small red cushion.

The public memorial in September would be much bigger; Aunt Tammy was calling it a celebration of life. There would be an exhibit of Joan’s work; there would be speeches from her proteges and peers. Today’s gathering was small and intimate. Today was for grief.

There was no sign of Steph.

—

I sat in the front row next to my dad and didn’t allow myself to turn around to see if anyone had slipped in after the memorial began. During the opening meditation, I closed my eyes so I could better listen to the silence in the room. Breathing, the creaking of chairs, muffled coughing. The door at the rear of the building opened and closed. The desire to look was an itch between my shoulder blades, but I held still.