Chapter 23: The Sparrow

On the second Sunday of the month I went to my mother's grave, and for the first time I didn't go alone.

Tadeo walked beside me through the wet grass in a dark coat, with his arm out of the sling.

He stopped at the gate.

"Go on," he said. "I'll wait here."

"No."

I took his hand.

"Stand on the right side," I said. "I'll stand on the left."

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then he nodded, and we went in together.

The stone was new.

The stonemason had come on Thursday, with a chisel and a very worried face, and cut away the old words.

For fifteen years the marble had said Marisa Brancato, beloved wife of Gaspare.

Now it said her name, and under it two others.

Mother of Giulia and Serafina.

And one more line, cut small at the bottom, that I had chosen myself.

She was leaving, and she was brave.

I knelt and laid my palm flat on the cold stone.

"Hello, Mama," I said. "I'm sorry I took so long."

The wind moved in the bare tree over us.

Tadeo stood very still on her right.

He bent his head, and I heard him say something in Spanish, so low that it was meant only for her.

I didn't ask what.

After a while I stood and brushed off my knees.

I held up my wrist, and the sparrow swung against the light.

"She'd have liked you," I said.

"She did."

"She trusted a nineteen-year-old with her bracelet."

"She trusted me with you," he said.

We walked back through the orchard at noon.

On the north side, past the last row of apple trees, stood a small white house with green shutters.

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