The Morning of the White Box
Last Saturday marked six years since we lost Lily.
Patrick woke before sunrise and asked if we could bring fresh lemonade out to the garden before the heat set in. I remember thinking how grown he looked standing in the kitchen, tall and thin, hair sticking up in back the way it had when he was little.
We went outside together.
Then Patrick stopped.
At first I didn’t understand what I was looking at.
The garden looked wrong.
Too flat.
Too empty.
Every sunflower had been cut down.
Every single one.
Except one tall stalk standing alone in the center of the patch.
It swayed gently in the morning air, alone among the broken stems.
Hanging from it by a white ribbon was a small white box.
Patrick’s voice came out barely above a whisper.
“Mom…”
My hands shook as I untied the ribbon. I opened the box slowly, already dreading what might be inside.
Then my knees nearly gave out.
Inside was a photograph.
A girl stood beside a roadside sunflower field, wearing a sleeveless yellow dress, sunlight on her bare collarbone, her face turned slightly toward the camera.
For one impossible second, my heart stopped.
Because I thought I was looking at Lily.
Older.
Taller.
Alive.
Patrick snatched the photograph out of my hands.
He stared at it without blinking.
“Mom,” he whispered. “That’s her.”
