4
Erik
I threw my coat on the floor and ran to what I privately called, not that anyone else in existence had seen it, the Memory Box. It was just a chest containing nostalgic, painful memories that I had lately thought I didn't need. Most of it contained my dreams of my angel Christine. Surprisingly, I no longer obsess over her. Yes, it took seventy years after her death to let her go, but do I no longer love her? No! But now there's someone else, someone I've never heard sing who fascinates me so much that I feel sick to my stomach. I kneel at the box and dig up the last letter I received from Imani Lasalle. A birth announcement. A photo of her, grinning with her long pure white teeth and holding a sleepy baby, was on it. The text said, "Nicole Denise Lasalle-Jones, born 12:54 A.M. December 25th, 1995. 7 pounds, 5 ounces. 19 inches long."
I admired Imani like anyone would a dazzlingly talented actress. It was an honor to know her so intimately…platonically. So why wouldn't I appreciate the daughter that waltzes into my death, asking so politely for permission to put on one of my shows? Why is her smile, so identical to my old friend's, imprinted like a tattoo in my head? Does she sing? Her voice isn't as high and musical as Imani's. Rather sober, somewhat sarcastic. It echoed in my head. Just when I thought I'd forgotten how to love, here I go again. I closed the box and leaned against it, holding the card against my motionless heart. I prayed to the God that showed no pity to me that I wouldn't make the same mistake as I did more than a century ago, and this time get the girl.