I was twelve, maybe thirteen. When Mom came in, I was lying on my bed reading, hands behind my back. Mom said, close your eyes and open your hands. She liked to do this with a sense of surprise.
I slid to the edge of the bed. I opened my eyes, hands spread wide. I felt warm fingers touching my hands. A pendant fell heavily into my palm. A chain slid over my hand, sliding over my wrist.
Well, look, she said. I opened my eyes, my mouth trembling. I looked at her, my eyes filled. This is Baba's... this is all I could say. Tears before.
Mom said she wanted you to have it.
I sat cross-legged on the swaying bed, reaching out a hand around the treasure. Crying. Sobbing. I don't know how long it lasted.
I once had a grandmother. Now I have a necklace.
The price of aging is loss, and I am willing to pay the price. But not in pain.
After Dad fell, I chased the ambulance, praying the same six words over and over, unsure if anyone was listening. Please God, let me say goodbye. Please God, let me say goodbye. He didn't hear my voice, I guess.
From the day he enlisted, I have faded brown photos. His dog tags. When I held them in my hands, I was a little girl again. My hair in butterfly barrettes sitting on Mom's old burgundy sofa, telling stories of ten kidnapped farm boys, laughing, proud, recruiting on the train.
I was a teenager sitting at the kitchen table, and he provided me with history homework, I didn't know it was a flashback for him until he cried survivor's guilt. The last man standing. The only one or the only one to come home at all. They. His friends. Why me, he cried. Why me?
I was the bride, walking down the aisle along his arm. A mom, holding my baby in my arms. I was divorced, sobbing in his arms. I was his caregiver, holding him at three in the morning when he had nightmares.
He used to say DobrýDen. A beautiful day, isn't that what we all want? A beautiful day, with enough food, a little laughter, or just an interlude from...