Fourteen: Childless.
“While nothing can fill the space of a lost child or loved one, all of us can extend a hand to those in need, to remind them...that the love they felt for those they lost endures not just in their memories, but also in ours.
-President Barack Obama
Dumbstruck.
That was, I decided, the perfect word to describe how I felt on Friday afternoon, swimming in apprehension while parked outside your house. Aunt Sheridan, in the driver's seat (she always insisted on driving), was complimenting your house. It was one of those pretty, big Victorians that she wishes we could afford. Uncle Dillon was shushing her, saying that she was talking so, so loud and could she please calm down because he was trying to hear the radio.
And I was dumbstruck. Dumbstruck because this was real, and we were actually at your house and you were going to be outside any second now. Dumbstruck because of the solemn words trickling from the backseat speakers.
“One of the worst school shootings in American history...”
I didn't want to think about it anymore.
Thank God, Uncle Dill changed the channel to Christmas music, and at the same time you came dashing outside in an apple-red sweater with a giant reindeer on the front. I leaned across the seat to open the door for you, and you climbed inside with a greeting and a smile.
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood,” you said. “Thank you for inviting me; it's so nice to meet you.”
Uncle Dill smiled a bit and waved at you, and Aunt Sheridan twisted all the way around to reach out and shake your hand. Her blonde hair was wild, a frizzy mane around her head, but she was bright-eyed and beaming and so were you.
“You must be Ellery,” she gushed. “Please, call me Sheri. And look at you, such a pretty girl!” You turned the same color as your sweater and smiled as Aunt Sheridan confided, “Sam really likes you, you know.”
“Aunt Sheridan,” I hissed, appalled.
But you just laughed, your cheeks a glowing shade of rosy pink. “I really like him too,” you smirked.
Aunt Sheridan went crazy at the Christmas tree lot, as expected, because there were so many trees and she had to find the one that was just perfect. I thought they all looked the same, but maybe that was just me.
You walked beside me, hands buried in the pockets of your jeans, as my aunt darted through the aisles and past crates of trees and called out names and prices in her too-loud voice. The smell of pine crept up my sweater and through my hair and into my nose, tickling my senses.
“How about this one, Ellery?” called my aunt from around the corner. She had taken a liking to you already, I could tell.
We approached Aunt Sheridan, who stood beside her husband with her hands extended toward the most awful-looking tree I had ever seen. It was flocked, like the pretty white ones that look like snow, except that this was bright pink and terrible and looked like something had gone very wrong.
“It looks like moldy cotton candy,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
Uncle Dillon grunted. “Or furry intestines.”
And you: I saw your face twist up, your nose wrinkling as you tried to keep a look of disgust off of your features. “Um, it's...colorful?” you offered.
