A 6"x6" Box

Thank you Lornda~ House of Martell ~ for the pretty teal ribbon!


A 6"x6" Box

A key ring with one plastic fish, three plastic turtles and a single key; two 4-inch wooden turtles; an old pill box with three turquoise rings in it; two old watches, one with silver fish and glass bead turtles; a Tweety Bird key ring with no keys attached; a pink flip-flop keyless key ring that said Amber in the middle; 13 pictures; two cheap bracelets with broken clasps; four necklaces; her death announcement and a small pink stone in a 3"x3" box. The stone had Beauty etched into its surface, and the inscription on the clear plastic-covered box read There is no smiling face that is not beautiful.

An entire life reduced to a 6"x6" box. Not much to show for 33 years of life, and certainly not much by which a nine-year-old daughter can remember her mother.

It was 8:30 a.m. on March 13, 2008. I walked out of the hospital where I'd been visiting a young patient of mine--a patient who would die later that evening--when my cell phone rang. It was my dad.

"I have some bad news," he said.

"What!" I demanded, afraid I couldn't take any more bad news.

"Amber is dead. They found her body in her apartment."

Amber was my sister-in-law. She was all of 33 years old.

Dad said, "No one had seen or heard from her in a while, so when they went to check on her they found her dead in her bed. They say she's been dead at least seven days."

Amber and my brother split up nine years ago.  They have a nine-year-old daughter named Trista, who has been raised by my parents since she was a baby.

I hate to say this because it sounds so sexist, but Amber was one of those girls who needed a man to take care of her, and I don't mean that in a bad way ... it's just the way it was. She was beautiful and blonde and bubbly, but she wasn't very smart or educated. All she ever wanted was for a man to love her.

After she and my brother split, she stripped for a while. I remember her telling me that she had to get drunk before going on stage because she was so self-conscious. She told me she fell off the stage once, and the memory of it pains me still. I remember she entered and won a tight jeans contest. She had five children by four different men, and she wasn't raising any of them.

After Amber and my brother separated, Amber lived with my husband and me for a few months. I hadn't heard from her in a few years because the last guy she hooked up with lived in Colorado somewhere and we lost touch. I loved her, and her death was completely unexpected and devastating. I knew she dabbled in drugs and alcohol, so I assumed that her death had something to do with them (it was later determined that her death was an "accidental drug overdose").

I thought of her beautiful blonde hair, her bubbly personality, her warm smile. Amber was one of those people who gave 110 percent of herself to those she loved, never wanting (or expecting) anything in return. She had a huge heart and was one of the most genuine people I've ever met.

I thought of all those children who would grow up without their mother. I thought of all the good times we had together. I thought of how I wanted to protect her and take care of her, and I wondered why she hadn't contacted me if she was in trouble.

Her funeral was scheduled for 11:00 a.m. on March 31 at Carlin, Nevada Cemetery--hundreds of miles away, and because I had to work I wasn't able to attend.

Despite the fact my brother is still living, he travels a lot for work and has never been part of Trista's life. She never met her mother and had only talked to her on the phone a few times, but Amber's death crushed her because, for all intents and purposes, Trista is now an orphan.

I recently visited my parents, and the night before we were to come home Trista asked if she could show me the personal effects she received after Amber's death. I waited at the kitchen table, knowing what awaited me was going to be painful and upsetting.

Trista quietly set a small 6"x6"-inch wooden cigar box in front of me that said LaLoma: Hand Made in the Dominican Republic on the lid. I opened it and took out each thing individually: a key ring with one plastic fish, three plastic turtles and one key on it (it must have been her house key because she didn't own a car); two 4-inch wooden turtles; an old pill box with three turquoise rings in it; two old watches, one with silver fish and glass bead turtles; a Tweety Bird key ring with no keys on it; a pink flip-flop keyless key ring that saidAmber in the center; 13 pictures, most of them of Amber and my brother holding Trista in the hospital after she was born; two cheap bracelets with broken clasps; four necklaces, also with glass turtles on them; her death announcement and a small pink stone in a 3"x3" box. The stone had Beauty etched into its surface, and the inscription on the clear plastic-covered box read There is no smiling face that is not beautiful.

An entire life reduced to a 6"x6" box. Not much to show for 33 years of life, and certainly not much by which a nine-year-old daughter can remember her mother.

Sometimes there is no happy ending.

Rest in peace, Amber.

Amber Tracy
My sister-in-law