It was Monday, May 9th, and a beautiful spring morning.
    Bill and I had spent most of our weekend cleaning house
    and fine-tuning any discrepancies in preparation for our
    latest project: selling our home. The house was
    immaculate and we felt ready for the challenge.

    Bill and I had new dreams and plans. We had placed our
    house on the market the previous week, and the realtor
    had said this day, after advertising, would probably be the
    day for customers to want to take a look.  We’d known
    that ads were placed in the real estate magazines over
    the weekend and figured we’d better make sure
    everything was perfectly tidy for any lookers. So, beds
    were made and everything sparkled and smelled just

    We sat with our coffee and stared at perfection. We
    giggled with optimism about how the first person to see
    our home would probably say, “This is it! I must have this
    wonderful house! I will gladly pay any amount of money. I
    will pay even more than the asking price as long as I can
    have it!” We laughed and then stopped to gulp, because
    this was our home. There was a fine line between
    excited and utterly horrified that someone would actually
    want it. Finally, we just held hands and sat quietly,
    knowing that what will be, will be.

    We enjoyed the moment and decided we had better get
    ready for work. We usually left home about 10:30 and this
    day would be no different. I dressed and was waiting for
    notebook paper, were strewn about. Just a few had been
    typed and stapled together. I wished I could wave a
    magic wand with sparkly sprinkle dust and make them
    all start shuffling about until one neat, organized
    manuscript appeared. I knew I needed to get all my
    deepest thoughts: the paragraphs of fulfillment, the
    sequences of happiness, true love and dismay – all into
    some kind of logical order. There was a story to be told
    about a girl (me) and a boy (Bill). The story was
    somewhere in this pile. I knelt down on the tile floor to get
    a closer look. Seeing the ragged-edged pages and post-
    it notes scribbled with hasty scrawls, whatever had been
    previously attempted was no longer clear to me. Was this
    the best I could do?

    I thumbed through the pages. A sentence popped out at
    me as though highlighted. I read aloud, ‘The sirens could
    be heard coming down the street until they ended in an
    abrupt death…silence.’  Seeing my handwriting, I
    wondered how I could relive that day in black and white.
    But I'd made a promise over a year ago.