Constance

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Constance on the beach (1952)

The box of family photographs arrived by UPS this afternoon, an unexpected surprise. My brother and I had not been in contact for the last eighteen months, the months following our mother's death. We had fought with angry words; almost coming to blows over things of hers I wanted, things of much more value to me than to him. That box of old photographs topped my list— I cherish memories, he could care less. He would not yield even though what I wanted was of no value to him. I have no idea why he relinquished them now.

I opened the box immediately and began removing the pictures, studying each, remembering the people and events they memorialized. It was almost midnight when I viewed the last one. As I started to return the photos to the box, one felt different than the others—like it had been printed on extra heavy paper. I looked more closely and discovered that two photographs were stuck together. Carefully I pulled them apart and there was a picture of Constance, our little sister, taken three weeks before her death. I remembered taking this picture of her and tears flooded my eyes, harbinger of the sobs that wracked my body for several moments; the first tears I had shed since her death.

It was taken the morning of her seventh birthday and our parents had arranged a larger than usual family gathering to celebrate the occasion, even expecting relatives who lived several hours away. Constance's party would begin with a late lunch after all had arrived, followed by cake, ice cream and finally the unveiling of her presents.

This was not at all to Constance's liking however; she wanted to open her presents that morning. No amount of reasoning or cajoling worked to change that stubborn little mind. Bristling with anger and frustration she stomped out of the cottage onto the beach and at the moment she glared back at us, I took her picture.

It is the only picture I have of Constance. Three months later she was dead, the victim of a hit and run while riding her bike—her birthday bike, the present she wanted first thing that morning, the present that my parents insisted she wait for.

Had Constance had her way, I would not have this picture of her that called to memory so many things she did to enrich our lives during her short time with us. It is the only picture to escape my mother's blind, grief-laden rage that prompted her to destroy all other reminders of my little sister.