long as you remember her. She’ll always live in your memory, in your heart.”
Dawn turned her eyes, still bright and stinging with prickly tears, toward her mother. “It hurts, Mom,” she whispered. “It hurts.” She looked up at her bedroom wall. The poster was still there, the poster Sandy had drawn. Mr. Ruggers sat valiantly astride his big white horse. Beneath his hooves, piles of attacking green globs snapped and snarled.
“All that they did to me in the hospital…” Dawn continued quietly. “All the needles and tests and hurting… None of it hurt like this.” The tears came then, a flood of tears. They were tears with big wracking sobs that shook her body, sobs from the core of her being, tears from the pit of her anguish.
Dawn’s mom held her crying daughter. Dawn cried for all the times she’d never cried, for all the pain, for all the children, for Sandy, Mike, and Greg and for herself, too. She cried until she gagged, until she felt like she would turn inside out. She was so empty, void and spent that she couldn’t move, and then she slept.
Dawn didn’t go to school for two days. She lay red-eyed and silent, alone in her room. She ate. She took her medications. She did all the mechanical things that her parents made her do. When Dr. Sinclair called her, she knew that her parents had called him about her. She told him she’d be all right.
“Your tests are good, Dawn,” he told her on the phone.
“I’m not worried about me,” she told him. “I know I’m in remission and I plan to stay in remission. Really, it’s okay.”
Her friends called. But she didn’t want to talk to any of them, yet. Some sent her cards in the mail. They all had known about her friend Sandy. They were all sorry. She got one mystery card. It had a picture of a Koala bear on the front with a
bandage across his forehead. Inside it read: “I can’t bear to see you hurt!” It was unsigned.
One week later the package came. Dawn opened it in her room alone with Mr. Ruggers looking down from his shelf. She tore off the paper and lifted the lid. A note rested on top. Mrs. Chandler’s flowing scroll had written:
Dear Dawn,
These are the special items that Sandy asked us to forward to you. She cared about you very much, often calling you her very best friend. Please keep in touch with us. We want to know when you make that five year mark. Do it for Sandy.
The Chandlers.
The first thing Dawn opened was the box of hair combs. She ran her fingers over all the brightly colored hair decorations and smiled inwardly. “I’ll grow my hair long again,” she said aloud.
Next, she lifted out a popcorn necklace. It looked slightly shriveled and the glitter flaked off in her hands. But it, too, caused her to smile. She remembered the day Sandy had made it.
She found the matchbox full of ashes from camp. A lump swelled in her throat. She’d put it with her own box and take them both to camp
with her next year. ‘I’ll write Mike,” she said in to the stillness of her room, as if someone besides Mr. Ruggers would hear her.
She found Mike’s picture in Sandy’s diary, marking one special page. It was dated the last night of camp in August.
Mike kissed me tonight. How wonderful it was! I’ve never been kissed like that! Wow! ‘Course only Dawn knows that I’ve only been kissed once before anyway! And she won’t tell. I can’t wait ‘til next summer. Then Mike and I can practice some more….
The letters began to squiggle and squirm before Dawn’s eyes. “I’ll have to read this later,” she said, sniffing hard against the threatening wave of nostalgic tears.
The last thing in the box was a page from the Bible. It had been torn out and marked up. But it was obvious that Sandy had read it many times.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8.
To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
2 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;.
3 A
Dawn turned her eyes, still bright and stinging with prickly tears, toward her mother. “It hurts, Mom,” she whispered. “It hurts.” She looked up at her bedroom wall. The poster was still there, the poster Sandy had drawn. Mr. Ruggers sat valiantly astride his big white horse. Beneath his hooves, piles of attacking green globs snapped and snarled.
“All that they did to me in the hospital…” Dawn continued quietly. “All the needles and tests and hurting… None of it hurt like this.” The tears came then, a flood of tears. They were tears with big wracking sobs that shook her body, sobs from the core of her being, tears from the pit of her anguish.
Dawn’s mom held her crying daughter. Dawn cried for all the times she’d never cried, for all the pain, for all the children, for Sandy, Mike, and Greg and for herself, too. She cried until she gagged, until she felt like she would turn inside out. She was so empty, void and spent that she couldn’t move, and then she slept.
Dawn didn’t go to school for two days. She lay red-eyed and silent, alone in her room. She ate. She took her medications. She did all the mechanical things that her parents made her do. When Dr. Sinclair called her, she knew that her parents had called him about her. She told him she’d be all right.
“Your tests are good, Dawn,” he told her on the phone.
“I’m not worried about me,” she told him. “I know I’m in remission and I plan to stay in remission. Really, it’s okay.”
Her friends called. But she didn’t want to talk to any of them, yet. Some sent her cards in the mail. They all had known about her friend Sandy. They were all sorry. She got one mystery card. It had a picture of a Koala bear on the front with a
bandage across his forehead. Inside it read: “I can’t bear to see you hurt!” It was unsigned.
One week later the package came. Dawn opened it in her room alone with Mr. Ruggers looking down from his shelf. She tore off the paper and lifted the lid. A note rested on top. Mrs. Chandler’s flowing scroll had written:
Dear Dawn,
These are the special items that Sandy asked us to forward to you. She cared about you very much, often calling you her very best friend. Please keep in touch with us. We want to know when you make that five year mark. Do it for Sandy.
The Chandlers.
The first thing Dawn opened was the box of hair combs. She ran her fingers over all the brightly colored hair decorations and smiled inwardly. “I’ll grow my hair long again,” she said aloud.
Next, she lifted out a popcorn necklace. It looked slightly shriveled and the glitter flaked off in her hands. But it, too, caused her to smile. She remembered the day Sandy had made it.
She found the matchbox full of ashes from camp. A lump swelled in her throat. She’d put it with her own box and take them both to camp
with her next year. ‘I’ll write Mike,” she said in to the stillness of her room, as if someone besides Mr. Ruggers would hear her.
She found Mike’s picture in Sandy’s diary, marking one special page. It was dated the last night of camp in August.
Mike kissed me tonight. How wonderful it was! I’ve never been kissed like that! Wow! ‘Course only Dawn knows that I’ve only been kissed once before anyway! And she won’t tell. I can’t wait ‘til next summer. Then Mike and I can practice some more….
The letters began to squiggle and squirm before Dawn’s eyes. “I’ll have to read this later,” she said, sniffing hard against the threatening wave of nostalgic tears.
The last thing in the box was a page from the Bible. It had been torn out and marked up. But it was obvious that Sandy had read it many times.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8.
To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
2 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;.
3 A
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