In a grand hall, my youngest sits at my right hand, 
Here to bear witness as Big Sis crosses the stage.
Unlike me, my youngest applauds every name called. 
Is this gesture satire or respect? 
Our silly one, now strangely mature. 
He is my youngest, but not that young, 
Running the leg that those on stage are completing. 
I believe that he has chosen to honor them, 
With an energy I admire, but can’t summon. 

To my left are her three champions from UVA--
Elegant and sophisticated travelers, 
Hilarious lovers of fun and each other. 
They have journeyed to share this moment.
When I ask one why, she reminds me, 
“Friends show up, even when they are tired.” 
If wealth can be measured by strength of companions, 
Then, my oldest enjoys riches beyond most dreams. 
Four, together, renew my faith in the future. 

To the right of my youngest sits the Matriarch. 
As my own father once said, “she lights up a room” 
--Even a hall as immense and grand as this. 
When the Dean recognizes parents, 
She will not stand. That is not her way. 
She knows what she’s done and that’s enough-- 
The one who bore and willed them both to where they are.
“Pride and joy” fails to even begin to reflect 
Her relationship to these mirrored progeny. 

Finally, the name of my oldest is called out. 
My youngest whoops and our party laughs and exalts. 
She strides, no glides, across the stage like an owner. 
I recall an outing we once shared-- 
Fuzzy Christmas slippers for her mom. 
A clear and joyful December day. 
In the car, we sang brightly of the color red. 
Now, I see the dark purple of her regalia. 
Partially obscured—blurry, awash and liquid.