Sitting on my youngest daughter Julia’s bed, sifting through boxes and boxes of pictures of her, her brown eyes sparkling in each photo as she rambled through every day like a fearless colt in a china shop, I select the pictures I want. Julia at 6, owning the pink and purple fashion sense of a Disney princess. Julia at 8, with her sisters, Meredith and Mallory, kitchen-dancing in their matching red polka dot pajamas on Christmas morning. Julia at 18, her long ponytail tangled and stuffed into a navy blue, camp-issued visor.
I add another picture to the stack for her memorial service — a picture of her at 13, sporting an effervescent smile while her eyes hide the humiliation imposed on her by middle-school peer pressure.
It is difficult to be in the present, so I return to the year 2003.
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