GRADUATION DAY
By CC King

A four-by-six color photograph of my father and me staring out over the field behind the gymnasium at my high school. The picture was taken in San Jose the day of my graduation, in the late 90s. My father and I are facing away from the camera, and even through the grainy pixels, it’s clear his hand hovers inches from my back, which is draped in a black gown that was never pressed—the folds from where it was boxed and shipped make the shiny fabric bend and catch the early June light. My father is telling me about my sister, about how many days he thinks she can last on life support, about how difficult it is on my mother, this decision looming before them, about how it can tear marriages apart. I remember that, though I don’t recall much of the graduation ceremony. Only being pushed from behind when my name was called, and the roar of applause and cheers as I made my way across the stage. Even then, I knew it was less an ovation for me than for my sister. Her graduation would be of a different kind.

Some other details stand out. Smiles everywhere. Balloons floating like severed heads to the rafters. Faces swarming me like bees. And my father, making his way to me after the formalities were over. His shoulder pressed against mine as parents and teachers and administrators pushed into us. How without saying a word, he cleared a path through the crowds of happy relatives and friends, shouting to each other over the cacophony of other happy relatives and friends talking about bright futures and roads ahead. The way he paused at the edge of the field when I did, inhaling the sweet scent of cut grass, instead of striding toward the car to beat the other cars out of the parking lot.