I was the flower girl at my cousin Candy’s wedding in June of 1965. The only thing I remember about that day was how long the aisle looked as I dropped rose petals, one slow step at a time. I wasn’t used to wearing a ribbon in my hair or fancy gloves and it all felt very special. The photographer posed us for this picture, but the look of adoration in my eyes was genuine.
Candy and I were the bookends of our generation. She was the oldest, I was the youngest, with seventeen years in-between. Candace Mae passed away this week — and my end of the book case suddenly feels weak and wobbly.
Family is like that — we don’t realize that we are holding each other up just by being together on the same shelf. When one is gone, the rest need to move in a little closer.