In June, my daughter, Tashi, graduated from high school. She got dressed up under her robe in a vintage wedding dress, black-lace gloves, and full makeup including press-on eyelashes. Maybe over the top, but her effort gave me hope.
I was tempted to post pictures on social media. I took a million: one with her arms out looking like a Goth angel; another in the auditorium among 650 graduates, distinguishable by the bright orange hair poofing out under her cap; one we staged that captures her cap flying in the air and her face exhilarated, even happy. Or maybe that’s me projecting.
