"Lost" by Chelsea M

Disclaimer: This is a fictional story. Not a narrative. Fiction. This is not me. This disclaimer is very necessary because everyone that reads this thinks it is based on my life. It is not. Thank you, over.

I was late. I hurriedly padded down the stairs as I gathered my dark hair and secured it with a rubber band. I pushed past the swinging doors of the restaurant’s kitchen and ran past Dawson, who was seated at the counter, coffee and newspaper in hand.

“Anna? Aren’t you supposed to be…?”

“You didn’t wake me up.”

He shrugged. “I thought Robyn already did.”

“She’s with her mom, shopping downtown for your wedding!” I snapped and turned the corner into the stock room.

“Oops.” He said, standing confused and half-asleep in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“My keys.” I muttered, scanning the floor. “Have you seen my keys?”

“Nope. Why would they be in the stock room?”

I groaned, crouching under a set of shelves. “Are you going to play twenty questions or help me find my keys?”

“I’m out of coffee,” he pouted. “Maybe your keys are by the coffee maker!”

“You’re no help.” I mumbled, crawling to the other end of the room. I have no idea what Robyn sees in him.

Finally, wedged between two boxes of ketchup, my thumb found the cold, jagged metal that was my keys. I let out a sigh of relief and pushed the case aside to grab hold of the jingling, magnetic collage.

I stood, my eyes coming face to face with the plaque. The keys in my hand suddenly became irrelevant. I scanned the familiar face nailed perfectly to the wall. I remember the effort it required for me to get the plaque just right, parallel to the door frame and thirty-six inches below the ceiling. Dawson had to move it several times because he couldn’t stand my response when a customer asked me about his best friend, my deceased brother. I’d suffer constant questions. What rank was he in? How long had he been over “there”? And people praised me for his sacrifice for our country. A pang of nostalgia hit me square in the chest and the walls closed in around me, making it suddenly harder to breathe. I reached up, tracing over the embossed letters of our shared last name.

The noise of someone clearing their throat made me jump, my hands instinctively moving to wipe the tears from my eyes.

“I should just put that away already,” Dawson muttered.

“No.” I croaked. “No, it’s nice here.”

“You cry every time you see it.”

“But it’s a good crying. It means I’m feeling something, right?”

He looked at me as if questioning whether or not I was sure of my words. I couldn’t blame him. He’s seen me cry over this plaque enough times to question whether or not this really was a “good crying.” After a while, he looked down at his watch.

“Don’t you need to…”

“Yeah.” I nodded, wiping a last tear. “I’m going.”

“Say hi to him for me, okay?” He said as I passed him. And for a split second I saw it. He was hurting just as much as I was. He lost a brother, too.

That afternoon, I put two flowers onto a gravestone.