Boxes like haunted time capsules, ominous with the everyday unknowing of what was to come. It's like helplessly reading a book, knowing that the heroine's ill fate awaits her when you turn the page. Your heart breaks for her innocent giddiness in planning for the upcoming holiday. She does not yet know she will spend it grieving, heart broken, drowning in an unrelenting sea of confusion.
Her children draw pictures of rainbows and hearts and smiling stick figures holding hands four in a row. They do not know in a week, a day, an hour's time, they will feel they can never draw again. The crayons will be boxed up and lost in storage and the pictures forgotten.
It's like watching a movie and wanting to scream to the pixel screen character, "Don't go in there! Turn back!" But the script has already been written, and the actors have all taken their places.
I have to remind myself that there is more to the telling of the tale as I revisit and attempt to find a new home for pages and pages of paper memory. The story continues on. The heroine stepped through the tragedy and walked on fire. She weathered the frightening storms, keeping her children close by her side and shielding them from forever harm. She cobbled together shelter and planted and sowed.
New pictures now arrive on the refrigerator with three stick figures where there were once four. Three figures at the top of a conquered mountain, holding hands, smiles on their faces. Above them, surrounding them, the rainbow has reappeared after the rain.