The funeral was a huge event, and Mother would have been proud to see how many people came, considering we’re a small family. Mother is an only child, and Dad has only one brother, Uncle Cotton—an elusive figure in my life, an author who is constantly traveling and in exotic locales, a writer about whom Mother rolled her eyes as if writing were a wasteful career that didn’t even deserve a comment (much as any career in the “arts” is wasteful, which is an odd opinion for a woman on the High Museum of Art board). But that’s my mother—contradictions seamlessly fitting inside one another like the babushka dolls my grandmother brought me from her trip to Russia. Mother’s best friend, Sadie’s mother, Birdie, walked through the crowd, making order of the crowd and the event as smoothly as if Mother were there doing it herself.

Our web of friends caught Dad, Lil, Rusty, and me, cradling us with their grief and respect. There were newspaper articles and monuments, trees planted, and a bench placed in front of the High Museum.

The last woman in line then approached us, holding a single lily in her hand as if she were a bride going down the aisle. I thought I’d start laughing again but found I was finished. The day was almost over, and I was lulled into that certainty that I’d done well, that we had made it through the worst of it.

“Ellie?” A voice behind me said my name. Softly. Perfectly.

A hand fell on my shoulder, and then I saw his face. Twenty years later, minutes and hours and days rearranged to allow me to see him again as if time hadn’t passed at all. Mostly I saw his eyes: almond shaped and kind, brown with green underneath, as if the eyes had meant to be the deep color of forest ferns and then at the last minute changed their mind.

I reached for Rusty’s hand to steady myself, but he was making large gestures while talking to his buddy Weston and didn’t feel me groping for firm grounding.

Then I saw Hutch’s smile, a little crooked and higher on the righthand side.

He hates being late.

I smiled at him. “Wow, hello, Hutch O’Brien.” My voice held firm and fast, and for this I was grateful.

He is witty with a cutting sarcasm.

He loves his eggs fried with buttered toast.

There is a scar on his cheek where a dog bit him when he was ten years old. For every person who asks, he has a new story for how he obtained this scar. I’ve heard more tales than I can remember.

“Ellie,” he said, “I’m so sorry about your mother. I know how close you were.”

“Thanks, Hutch.” I took his hand and shook it as if we were past and vague acquaintances.