17
Standing in front of my office window, I look down into the moonlit backyard. Though I stare intently, my focus is within. I lean up against the window’s frame and try an experiment.
See, this morning when I got up, I couldn’t remember Anna’s face. Well, I could remember the broad strokes. I could remember that she was a brunette and that she laughed a lot. A sort of low chuckle.
But I couldn’t picture her face in my mind.
Instead, I could only conjure Fiore. Her soft smile, the excitement that flared in her eyes when I proposed moving to New Orleans.
The sheer terror on her face when I pulled out the box from underneath her bed. Her expression when I picked her up afterward and put her into her bathtub.
All those things are sharp, real. Whereas all my memories of Anna are just th
