Bette and Tina smiled and took each other’s hand. I smiled back. I remember the thought that ran through my head at that moment. Each of them had received a cross like this one from their parents when they were younger. And they were giving one to me. As few, and subtle, as their motherly gestures have been over the years towards me, this one sticks out the most, meant the most. They were sharing their memories with me, and making one for all of us at the same time.

I motioned to my gift on the couch between them. “Well, open it.”

Bette motioned to Tina to open the gift for them. Paper was ripped, and both of them gasped. Bette reached over to pull the picture out of Tina’s lap. It was a black and white photo of two women sitting on a bench in a park. To most people, it probably wouldn’t have seemed like a big deal, these two ladies sitting in a park. Nothing was very striking about the park, or the ladies. But when I saw it, I knew I had to get it for them. The women in the photo looked exactly like Bette and Tina, just older. I remember when I saw it at the stall, I thought that was what they would look like together in another 25 years. The women in the photo were sitting close, but not too close. They were not looking directly at each other, but in the general direction, and they both had these small smiles of contentment on their faces. Old familiarity. I took it to get framed the next day, then wrapped it, and shoved it under my futon, not sure if I would ever give it to them. But seeing the looks on their faces, I knew I had made the right choice. Bette stood up, picked up the picture, and went over to the wall where the chair rail that ran around the room had an empty spot on the slim shelf. She put the picture there and stood back to look at it.