applause. She took a deep breath, picked up the bag, and walked to the front of the stage.
“It’s a real honor to be up here,” she began, glad that her voice didn’t crack. “Marlee and her grandmother meant a lot to me. I’m just sorry they can’t be here with us today.”
The audience murmured, and Dawn forged ahead. “I got leukemia when I was thirteen. In the hospital and at camp, I met others who also had cancer. We became great friends. Forever friends.” She saw Mr. and Mrs. Chandler take each other’s hand.
“Many of them are gone now.” Dawn held her head high. “But I’m still here. I’m still alive. And according to my doctors, many of the kids who will come to this new cancer clinic to be treated will be alive twenty— even thirty—years from now.
“So I brought some things to put in this capsule in the hope that when it’s opened a hundred years from now, people will see them and ask, ‘What was cancer? Did people really die from it?’” Dawn saw her mother dab her eyes with a tissue.
“These things will remind them that people did die, but they will never be forgotten.” She opened the bag, reached in, and pulled out the newspaper from the day the new cancer wing was announced, “I thought they might want to read the news of the day, to see what was important to us.”
Dawn noticed people in the audience nodding and smiling, and she continued. “And a friend of mine made a CD of today’s top hits, so kids from tomorrow can talk about our weird taste in music.” A ripple of laughter went through the listeners.
“I’m also including some items entrusted to me by my two most special friends. From Marlee Hodges, a letter she wrote to me before she died. She knew she was dying, but she was no longer afraid. And she asked that we carry on for her. And from Sandy Chandler, a page from her Bible. The verse says: ‘For everything there is a season . . . A time to live and a time to die.’” She looked up. “Nobody gets to pick his or her time to die, but living every day to the max is something we all get to do.” Dawn took a deep breath to control the slight quiver that had crept into her voice.
“And I’m putting in my personal diary. In this diary, I wrote down all my thoughts and feelings about having cancer. And I wrote about watching my friends die, one by one.” Dawn saw Rob nod with approval, and Katie wipe her cheek.
“Also, I’m burying Mr. Ruggers.” She pulled out her old, rumpled teddy bear, with its missing eye and bald spots. “He’s been loved a lot, but I figure it’s time that he had a long rest. Maybe some kid from the future will love him as much as I have.” She gently placed the tattered bear into the box on top of the other things.
Her hand trembled as she removed the final item from the sack. “And last of all, I want to put in this box of ashes from the bonfire at cancer camp. We’re supposed to bring the ashes back each year and sprinkle them onto the new fire for the kids who can’t come back, for the ones who’ve died. But I think they belong in this capsule to remind people that we all eventually turn to ashes, even if we don’t have cancer.” She picked up the now-empty bag and said into the microphone, “So that’s about it. I want to say thank you for giving me this privilege. Thank you for helping us win this war.”
People began to applaud, then to stand. She felt a lump clog her throat and tears mist her eyes. She gazed out at the audience, at the faces of the people she loved most in the world—her family, her friends, Sandy’s family. All at once, through the din of the applause, she heard birds singing in the trees. Their song, new every morning, gave her a special sense of peace.
Twenty
T HE remainder of the ceremony moved quickly. Dr. Douglas dug up a shovelful of dirt while cameras clicked. The time capsule box was taken away to be permanently sealed. It would be buried by the construction crew that would start
“It’s a real honor to be up here,” she began, glad that her voice didn’t crack. “Marlee and her grandmother meant a lot to me. I’m just sorry they can’t be here with us today.”
The audience murmured, and Dawn forged ahead. “I got leukemia when I was thirteen. In the hospital and at camp, I met others who also had cancer. We became great friends. Forever friends.” She saw Mr. and Mrs. Chandler take each other’s hand.
“Many of them are gone now.” Dawn held her head high. “But I’m still here. I’m still alive. And according to my doctors, many of the kids who will come to this new cancer clinic to be treated will be alive twenty— even thirty—years from now.
“So I brought some things to put in this capsule in the hope that when it’s opened a hundred years from now, people will see them and ask, ‘What was cancer? Did people really die from it?’” Dawn saw her mother dab her eyes with a tissue.
“These things will remind them that people did die, but they will never be forgotten.” She opened the bag, reached in, and pulled out the newspaper from the day the new cancer wing was announced, “I thought they might want to read the news of the day, to see what was important to us.”
Dawn noticed people in the audience nodding and smiling, and she continued. “And a friend of mine made a CD of today’s top hits, so kids from tomorrow can talk about our weird taste in music.” A ripple of laughter went through the listeners.
“I’m also including some items entrusted to me by my two most special friends. From Marlee Hodges, a letter she wrote to me before she died. She knew she was dying, but she was no longer afraid. And she asked that we carry on for her. And from Sandy Chandler, a page from her Bible. The verse says: ‘For everything there is a season . . . A time to live and a time to die.’” She looked up. “Nobody gets to pick his or her time to die, but living every day to the max is something we all get to do.” Dawn took a deep breath to control the slight quiver that had crept into her voice.
“And I’m putting in my personal diary. In this diary, I wrote down all my thoughts and feelings about having cancer. And I wrote about watching my friends die, one by one.” Dawn saw Rob nod with approval, and Katie wipe her cheek.
“Also, I’m burying Mr. Ruggers.” She pulled out her old, rumpled teddy bear, with its missing eye and bald spots. “He’s been loved a lot, but I figure it’s time that he had a long rest. Maybe some kid from the future will love him as much as I have.” She gently placed the tattered bear into the box on top of the other things.
Her hand trembled as she removed the final item from the sack. “And last of all, I want to put in this box of ashes from the bonfire at cancer camp. We’re supposed to bring the ashes back each year and sprinkle them onto the new fire for the kids who can’t come back, for the ones who’ve died. But I think they belong in this capsule to remind people that we all eventually turn to ashes, even if we don’t have cancer.” She picked up the now-empty bag and said into the microphone, “So that’s about it. I want to say thank you for giving me this privilege. Thank you for helping us win this war.”
People began to applaud, then to stand. She felt a lump clog her throat and tears mist her eyes. She gazed out at the audience, at the faces of the people she loved most in the world—her family, her friends, Sandy’s family. All at once, through the din of the applause, she heard birds singing in the trees. Their song, new every morning, gave her a special sense of peace.
Twenty
T HE remainder of the ceremony moved quickly. Dr. Douglas dug up a shovelful of dirt while cameras clicked. The time capsule box was taken away to be permanently sealed. It would be buried by the construction crew that would start
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