Outside the venue, Tara let out a long breath.
“I thought I’d feel better.”
“You might later. Or you might not.”
She looked at me.
“That’s honest.”
“I’m trying to start there.”
At the cars, she paused.
“Do you still have coffee?”
“Coffee, tea, and probably expired cereal.”
A small smile appeared.
“I can stay for a little while.”
Back at my house, I opened the cedar box I had guarded for twenty years.
Inside were her hair ribbons.
Her favorite red shoes.
A pancake recipe card.
And missing-person posters softened by time.
“I kept what I could,” I said. “Proof that you were loved.”
Tara touched one ribbon and began to cry.
Leave a Comment