I release all the pain I’ve kept inside and apologize to her over and over. I’ve held the tears in, trying to remain strong for Mom, but I can’t do it anymore. Even looking at her right now, seeing that she isn’t breathing anymore, it hasn’t all sunk in.įor the first time in days, I let myself cry. She looks flawless, almost like she’s just sleeping. I glance down at her, curling my fingers tightly around the edge of her casket. Part of me wants to laugh at the irony, as the other part wants to rip it off her and sneak the purple dress on. She hated wearing dresses, in general, but now, oh, she’d be so pissed. My lip curls up on one side thinking how much she’d hate wearing this dress right now. Instead, she picked out a dark, navy blue dress that she absolutely loathed wearing.
She said it was an ‘occasion’ dress, AKA-a happy occasion. I pleaded with my mom to let her wear her favorite purple dress, but she refused. He was a rescue, and she said she knew he was the perfect fit for our family.Īfter tracing the lines of each picture, I slowly walk to her casket. Another one shows us with our dog, Fudge, the first day we brought him home from the shelter. We were assigned different homerooms and weren’t happy about being apart. There’s the one of us standing in front of the middle school on our first day of seventh grade. I step closer and examine them, even though I’ve looked at it every single day for the past two years. When Pastor Jay asked us to bring in our favorite pictures of her, I knew immediately she’d want these. The memories we made the last fourteen years are all I have left of her. I smile at the memories, but at the same time feel like crying because now there won’t be anymore. We’d giggle and snap pictures of each other, torment Aaron and take his picture when his girlfriend was over, and take about a hundred photos of our pets.
I remember the day she got a new camera for Christmas and immediately started taking pictures-of everything. No neighbors or friends to play with meant we’d learned to entertain ourselves. We lived on farmland with only fields surrounding us. It captures every part of her personality. She made it two summers ago and had been adding photos of her friends and us ever since. Nothing in this entire room represents her except the collage board of pictures she had hanging in our room. Flowers surround her on one side and a table of vanilla scented candles on the other. The faded beige carpet is almost nonexistent. I glance around and notice the walls look as if they were painted a hundred years ago. It’s meant to sound soft and soothing, but I don’t know how anything can soothe away the ache burning in my chest. I notice faint music playing overhead through the speakers. I swallow as I step closer, her casket already open. The room will probably fill up quickly with family and friends, all coming to give their condolences. Chairs are all lined up perfectly, row by row. I walk down the short hallway and into the room her service is being held in. I wanted to see Ariel before everyone else starts arriving. Mom hadn’t said a word to me all morning, so I asked my older brother, Aaron, to take me early. I heard her through the bedroom door, but I didn’t go to her. My mother was hysterical all night long, crying in her room. It’s eerily quiet, the service not due to begin for another hour. I narrow my eyes, trying to adjust to the dim lighting. I step through the doorway, immediately hit with the mixed aroma of mildew and lavender from all the flower arrangements. Please purchase a copy of your own and respect the hard work of this author. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then it was pirated illegally.
This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to another person except when loaned out per Amazon’s lending program. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, establishments, organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. No parts of the book may be used or reproduced in any matter without written permission from the author, except for inclusion of brief quotations in a review. Literary Editor: Rogena Mitchell-Jones, Manuscript ServiceĪll rights reserved. Cover Photography by Perrywinkle PhotographyĬover Design by Perfect Pear Creative Covers
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