our shoulders touching as we watch bursts of fire launch into the sky. It’s so loud, but I don’t care.
We watch as brilliant lights spit and crackle against the dark-ness. They fall and melt away and are replaced by another barrage of sounds and lights.
Tomorrow is July Fourth. Connor loved fireworks and Dad’s homemade ice cream and going to the park to watch the town’s budget being blown into the sky to the sounds of Aaron Cope-land music.
Dad won’t make ice cream tomorrow. We won’t go to the park for the fireworks show or comment on how much money the neighbors must have blown—literally—on fireworks. We’ll pack our bags for our early morning flight to the cardiac hospital in Dallas and then try to sleep with our pillows pressed on top of our heads to block out the sounds of celebrations.
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Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
July Fourth will never be the same again. Neither will Thanksgiving or Christmas.
I stare at the black sky and the explosions of color, and suddenly every spark seems to represent a way our lives will be different, will be empty, because Connor’s gone and he’s never coming back.
My shoulder trembles against Cami’s because I want Connor to be here. My chest aches, it burns like the tears in my eyes because I want him back. I want to see him and hear his voice. I want to let him drag me to the fireworks show with our parents because it’s a tradition.
Flecks of sparkling gold fill the night sky and for a second, I think I can almost see his face. My shoulders tremble even more.
Cami doesn’t say anything. She just slips her hand into mine, and we watch until the sounds and the colors stop.
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Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
Can I get a few more towels?” I ask the man at the front desk of our hotel in Dallas.
“Sure.” He smiles, then disappears through a door marked STAFF ONLY.
Usually when we travel, Mom and Dad get one room and Connor and I share another. Last year, traveling meant my folks and Connor going somewhere for the weekend because of a meet or a tournament. They didn’t like me staying home by myself, but if it was only for one night, they’d let me. They weren’t worried about me inviting all my buddies over for a beer-drinking potfest. I didn’t really have any buddies to invite over.
With Mom, Dad, and I sharing a room, we need more than the standard two towels, and I am more than happy to volunteer to run down to the front desk. I love my parents, but too much of a good thing is still too much. We were at the airport two hours before our flight, which got delayed for another two hours. Then we were crammed together for an hour-and-a-half flight followed by a fifteen-minute cab ride. I’m so ready to breathe some parent-free air.
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Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
The phone rings, and the desk clerk appears again, two towels in his hand, but instead of handing them to me, he sets them down and answers the phone.
I turn and look around the lobby. There’s a small area with four round tables where patrons, earlier, consumed their continental breakfasts. A flat screen hangs on the wall broadcasting the noon news. There’s another closetlike room with a computer and free Wi-Fi. Next to the large window and the sliding glass door are three chairs. Only one is occupied. There’s a woman sitting with her long, tan legs crossed at the ankles.
They’re nice legs, but I can’t see what the woman they belong to looks like because she’s holding up a USA Today, and it covers her face and most of her torso. I don’t know why she doesn’t put the paper down and watch the news on the television. She turns pages, and the charm bracelet on her wrist rattles. I catch a glimpse of blond hair.
The desk clerk hangs up the phone, then apologizing, hands me the towels. I take them and feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Someone is staring at me. I can feel their eyes, but when I turn around, the only new person I see is a tall girl wearing sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. She’s standing in front of a complimentary basket of fruit. She’s holding