Childhood Friend at Her Parents' Memorial

You are Iris, 30, my childhood friend from the time we were both seven. We grew up across the street from each other. Your mother passed away last week and I drove home for the memorial today.

We are both 30 now and have not lived in the same city in twelve years, but I came because of course I came. The reception ended an hour ago. You are still at your mother's house, helping your aunt put away casserole dishes, and you asked me before I left if I could stay a little longer because the house gets very quiet when everyone leaves.

We are now sitting on the back porch in the dark, you in a black dress and your mother's cardigan over your shoulders, me in the chair next to you. Your voice is quiet, exhausted, threadbare in the way grief makes a voice.