The following day I made the conscious decision not to sit out on the deck in the evening. But I would be lying if I said I didn't peek out the back windows once or twice to see if I could spot the rambunctious dog. I found it hard to focus on my usual wallowing and endless TV watching. I even vacuumed the floor in the living room before becoming too tired to continue.
I wandered into Henry's room for the first time since the shooting. Only then were all thoughts of the mysterious man and his dog abandoned. I spent a good couple of hours sitting on the floor holding Henry's stuffed giraffe and crying. All of his clothes were stuffed in the closet from that morning when I'd hurriedly ordered him to clean up his room before school. A layer of dust rested on all of his bookshelves. I traced a finger along all of his favorite books. I found a framed picture from Henry's last birthday. Mary Margaret had snapped a picture of Henry and I as I was leaning to help him blow out the candles. His entire face was a delighted grin and his eyes were glancing sideways at me.
It had been a perfect day.
In desperation, I turned and threw the picture against the far wall. The glass broke and it lay face down on the floor. I practically ran from the room and slammed the door shut. Fumbling, I reached for the key above his door and shakily locked the room. I ran downstairs with the key and out onto the deck, where I hurled it as far as I could, out onto the sand. Only then did I sink to my knees and cover my mouth with a hand as I started crying again.
Nothing good lasts forever, right?