It had a huge maple tree in the backyard.
A porch.
A slightly crooked fence.
And, most importantly according to Vicky, stairs with a railing perfect for tying blankets into “castle walls.”
Her room was yellow.
Painfully yellow.
Sun-bright yellow.
Banana yellow.
If yellow could scream, her room screamed.
She loved it.
My room was across the hallway.
The third room became an office.
On one wall, I hung a photograph of Mom and Dad.
Not from the fire.
Not from court evidence.
Not from newspaper stories.
A photograph from our last vacation together.
Dad had sunscreen on his nose.
Mom was laughing.
Vicky had lost one shoe.
I was making a face at the camera.
Ordinary.
That’s how I wanted to remember them.
Not as victims.
As my parents.
One Saturday afternoon, while unpacking the final boxes, Vicky came downstairs holding a small wooden box.
“What’s this?”
I recognized it.
