The relic-like mementos in the box drew Sara in. She carefully lifted the dress, thinned with age, and pressed it to her body.   It seemed to be made for her. Smoothing it over her clothes and turning her head as if admiring herself in a mirror, Sara loved the feel of it, the look of it. The textures and sensations her touch brought to life were pure sleight of hand.

Sara waltzed herself out to the stoop and stood on the top step. Uninhibited, she moved into the yard and twirled around. She put her right hand into a broad square pocket on the front of the dress and pulled out several black and white Polaroids. She studied the photographs, thinking the one of a girl no more than fifteen might be her mother. All of a sudden, Sara realized the widower Mr. Cole was watching. Embarrassed, she threw up her hands to wave and shoved the photos back into the dress pocket, stepping onto the broken-down stoop to quickly go inside.

Before folding the garment and returning it to the box, Sara buried her face in it. The smells nearly knocked me over. Still figuring the dress was her mother’s and the box her father’s, a Lazarus returned from the dead, Sara sniffed until her nose hurt. She pushed toward it at the edges of her imagination. Every rational bone in her body gave way to pure emotion.

Strange images raced across her visual field.  She saw an oily black stained patch of rough boards and pints of blood pooled on the floor, the old dry wood soaking it up fast. Then Sara had another realization. The dark-haired girl from the photo was not her mother but her grandmother, Lacey, who died giving birth to Soren. The box was her  grandfather’s.