Remembering Rebeccca

Word Count:  272



         I found a picture today.  I was looking for an extra set of keys and ended up taking the drawer out to find them.  It had slipped over the back edge and was stuck in that no man’s land behind it. 

         I remember the day it was taken.  It was fall, and we’d raked leaves into piles on tarps, and then dragged then onto one huge pile.  The leaves were beautiful that year—reds, oranges and golds, even leaves still green except the veins. 

         The November air was crisp, but we were warm in the sun.  And the sky—the sky was a striking azure blue.  The light, lingering remains of an illegal bonfire told us someone in the neighborhood had burned his leaves.

         How you laughed that day.  And we, in turned, laughed at your antics.  You weren’t even walking yet.  But you squealed with delight as you tossed the leaves from the pile.  We’d gather them back up, and so the dance went on.

         It’s fall again.  And today, it might have been your daughter playing gaily in the leaf pile…if you’d lived to have a daughter.  Twenty-four—that’s how old you should be, would be.  If only…

         A hurricane, an unmarked danger and a foolish choice, and you were gone.  And so very much of us went with you.

         I swipe away the silent tears running down my cheeks and look again at the picture.  I look at the smiling child—caught in a moment of innocent pleasure—and I smile back.  What a joy it was to have you as long as we did.