I walk through conflict every day. Invisible to most, the conflict is inside of me, a legacy of grief. Like a set of scales: happiness and light on one side, darkness and sadness on the other. They fluctuate constantly, dipping side to side and back again, never quite achieving balance. No matter how bright the moment, grief is always lurking, ready to pull me back down. Because no matter what, my little girl will always be missing.
“We are now calling all first-class passengers and travelers with small children to board United Airways,” the flight attendant announced. I stood up and adjusted Colton’s jacket, then turned to help Lilianna with her backpack. “It’s time for you guys to go now,” I said. I grabbed each child’s hand and escorted them to the gate.
I am thinking this must be the mindset of an arsonist. I wonder if an arsonist ever thinks about the lasting effects their actions have on those who inhabited a building they set on fire. Unfortunately, I was in a building that was set on fire—not once, but three times while my mom and I were living there.