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One last time, or for the first of all the times to come.
I'm still undone.
I still need putting back together.
I need you.
Please.
Just come.
For me.
Just this one last time.
Yours,
K
Fifty
Kingsley
The jubilee is allthat we had imagined it to be.
A celebration of a hundred years of my family's blood, sweat, sacrifice, heartbreak, and tears.
The day starts with a fair to rival any carnival. Our vendors, customers, local organizations and their patrons are invited. There are circus acts, multiple stage performers, food trucks, games for children, and games for the adults.
An exhibition shows off the reach and results of Baxter Enterprises community outreach programs, of what can still be done and what we're doing about it. My-Linh stands by the hundred foot long panel display, holding a basket with bracelets with the Baxter's Community Outreach motto in one hand. The other holds a bubble gun that she waves around with a bright smile and enchanting giggle.
Damien stands to her side, proud of Baxter Enterprises, but prouder of his wife.
Matthias and Clarissa hold court in the whiskey and jazz marquee. A stunning, charming pair pouring an alcoholic cocktail while selling the virtues of Baxter to you.
Kylian and Kiara run the games tent. Teaching a whole new generation of how to outplay the person sitting across them, and how to win even the most rigged of carnival games.
Dad makes the rounds. Handing out candy to the children, while telling their parents about the best way to make the most of their college funds.
At four p.m. as the carnival is winding down for the first day, the eight of us make our way back to the house to get ready for the night's gala.
I hide myself in my room, standing under the shower for an hour to wash away the dust and sound, clinging to my skin like a pulsating headache.
Trying not to wonder.
By six p.m. we're back in the car o the way to the ballroom.
Paparazzi line the street, trying to catch a glimpse of some of the celebrities slated to be attending, as my brothers and I stand in the greeting line.
I shake a hundred hands, repeat a hundred names that I promptly forget, ask a hundred questions about children and parents and causes.
Each time another person moves through the line, it's her face I search for.
And it's never her.
Not once.
The line peters out and I wait, until the last of the cars drive away, and it's just us.
