Psalm’s Graduation Day - New Project

May in Wasilla finally felt like May. The snow was gone, the birch trees were budding, and the whole family was ironing clothes.

Because today was Psalm’s day.

Psalm, 17, Class of 2026, homeschool graduate, oldest sister in the house, keeper of secrets, braider of hair, AKA... THE MIGHTY FOREHEAD! She was standing in front of the hallway mirror, cap and gown on, twisting her tassel.

Bitty sat on the stairs with Freckles the stuffed dog. She was quiet. Too quiet.

Dassah climbed into her lap. “You sad, Bitty?”

Bitty hugged her sister tight. “A little. Psalm’s graduating. That means… that means she might move out someday to her own house.”

Dassah frowned. “No! Psalm live here forever!”

Mom — Brandy — came over and knelt down. She smoothed Bitty’s hair. “She won’t be gone forever, my little lovely lady. But you’re right. Things change. And it’s okay to be sad about that.”

Dad walked by with his tie half done. “But you know what doesn’t change? Lovely Law #1.”

“Love others as yourself,” Bitty whispered. “Even when they grow up.”

“Especially then,” Dad said, kissing her forehead.

The whole crew went. Nation in a button-up. Ocean with a program and a pen for notes. Harbor with a bag of peppermints “for emergencies.” Mom and Dad. Grandpa Malcuit from the motorhome, wearing his best flannel. Rowdy stayed home — no dogs at graduation.

The gym smelled like balloons and hairspray. When they called “Psalm Malcuit,” the whole family stood up and cheered louder than anyone.

Psalm walked across the stage. She took her diploma. She looked out at them — at Nation, Ocean, Harbor, Bitty, Dassah, Mom, Dad, Grandpa — and she smiled so big it looked like the sun came out. She shared who she was thankful for (mainly family) and then shared our family tradition inviting everyone to say, "1,2,3... Thank you, Lord Jesus!" Many joined in and the crowd cheered her on when done.

Bitty clapped until her hands hurt. But her chest hurt too. Because it was way too loud in that place... that, and being all grown-up meant moving. And moving meant missing.

After the ceremony, Psalm found them in the crowd. She was still in her cap. She scooped up Bitty, then Dassah.

“My little lovelies,” she said, using Dad’s words. “Did you see me?”

“You were the man!” Dassah shouted.

Everyone laughed. Even Nation.

That night, back home, Psalm was packing a box. Not to move. Not yet. Just to sort her room.

Bitty stood in the doorway with Freckles. “Are you leaving tomorrow?”

Psalm set the box down and sat on the bed. She patted the spot next to her. “Not tomorrow. Maybe not for a long time. But someday, yeah. That’s what grown-ups do.”

Bitty’s fair skin got blotchy. “I don’t want you to go. Who will do my hair? Who will read me the funny voices?”

Psalm pulled her close. “I will. When I visit. And when I call. And when you come see me. Bitty, listen. We’ll always have the memories. The backyard. The U.S.S. Grandpa. The moon mission. Castle Lovely. That’s all ours. Nobody can pack that in a box.”

Bitty nodded into her sister’s gown. “I know Lovely Law #1. I have to love you even when you’re far. But it’s hard.”

“The hardest,” Psalm said. “But love doesn’t live in houses, Bitty. It lives in here.” She tapped Bitty’s chest. “And here.” She tapped her own.

That night, Bitty dreamed.

In the dream, she was on a rocket. Not the U.S.S. Grandpa. This one was made of photo albums and glitter glue.

Co-pilot: Psalm. 17, cap still on, but now it had stars.
Navigator: Freckles.
Passenger: Dassah, wearing her colander helmet.

“Destination?” Psalm asked.

“Memory Star,” Bitty said. “Where all our good times live.”

They flew past the 1000-Year War, where Bromanlians and Timmy-Tomanlians were now having a picnic with yummy fried chicken. They flew past the Moon, where baby Judah waved. They flew past Castle Lovely, where the S.S. Sausage Beast was parked.

They landed on a star made of light.

Psalm took Bitty’s hand. “See? Every time we laughed. Every time we hugged. Every time I braided your hair. It’s all here. You can visit anytime. Even when I’m at college. Even when you’re 60.”

Bitty looked around. The star was warm. It smelled like Psalm’s shampoo.

“What if I forget?” Bitty whispered.

“You won’t,” Psalm said. “And if you do, I’ll remind you. That’s what sisters do. We keep each other’s stories safe.”

Dassah ran up with a bucket. “We bring star home?”

Psalm laughed. “We don’t have to. We already carry it.”

Bitty woke up.

The sun was coming through her curtains. Freckles was on her pillow. Downstairs, she could hear Psalm’s voice, and Mom’s, and the smell of pancakes.

Bitty ran downstairs. Psalm was at the stove, still in her pajamas, flipping pancakes with Dad.

“You’re not gone,” Bitty said.

Psalm turned. “Not yet. And when I do go, I’ll come back. For birthdays. For Christmas. For when you need your hair braided.”

Dassah ran over and hugged Psalm’s legs. “You stay for pancakes forever!”

“Forever’s a long time,” Nation said, coming in with a plate. “But I’ll take every Sunday.”

Grandpa Malcuit came in from the motorhome. “Heard there was a graduate in the house. Brought bacon. Bacon is a Lovely Law, I think.”

Mom smiled and Dad and they both smiled at their little lovelies. “It is now.”

After breakfast, Psalm took Bitty and Dassah to the backyard. Just the three of them.

“Let’s make a new memory,” Psalm said. “For the Memory Star.”

They built a cool little house from birch bark and moss. Bitty put Freckles in charge of it. Dassah put her colander on top as a roof.

“There,” Psalm said. “Now even when I’m not here, you’ll look at this and know I was.”

Bitty hugged her, hard. “I love you as myself, Psalm. That’s Lovely Law #1.”

“I love you too, my little lovely,” Psalm whispered. “Always.”

And in Wasilla, under a May sky, Class of 2026 graduated… but the Lovely crew stayed the same where it mattered: in the heart.