“I cut the trip short, Margaret,” I said to the stone.

“I left your house three days before the memorial was over.”

A blue jay called from a low branch of the oak, then flew off toward the chapel roof.

I stood beside the grave with my hands tucked in my coat pockets.

For months a quiet ache had sat in my shoulders whenever I thought about boarding that plane in Dublin.

I’d carried a private shame, believing I had let my sister down by leaving her memory behind in the rain.