I came home from a three-day business trip carrying gifts for my wife and daughter.
For Lily, I had bought a stuffed fox from the airport gift shop because she had been begging for one ever since her class visited the zoo.
For Clara, I had chosen a green silk scarf.
Tiny gold leaves decorated the edges.
I had spent almost twenty minutes choosing it because years earlier, Clara had once tried on a green dress and laughed before telling me, “Green makes me feel like spring remembered me.”
For most of the flight home, I imagined her wearing that scarf.
I imagined Lily running down the hallway when she heard my suitcase wheels.
I imagined Clara pretending to be annoyed that I’d bought another unnecessary gift before kissing me anyway.
Those little thoughts were what carried me through the long trip home.
But when the taxi turned onto my street, everything I had imagined disappeared.
White folding chairs covered our front lawn.
A large canopy had been erected beside the driveway.
Cars lined both sides of the road.
White flowers surrounded our gate.
And tied to the iron bars was a long black mourning ribbon.
For several seconds, I couldn’t move.
I stared through the taxi window, convinced that somehow the driver had taken me to the wrong address.
Then I saw the photograph.
