Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
I nearly fall to my knees at the sight, a choked sob tearing up my throat.
The graffiti-covered boards that Carry helped me nail over the windows are nowhere to be found, and in their place are sleek, clean panes. A gorgeous, sweeping circle in the center—my logo. It’s a dusty, soft yellow and lavender with the name in the center.
Paige’s Playground: Youth Dance and Rec Center.
“What…” My sob starts slowly, and I bury my face in my hands as it grows, my limbs shaking.
It’s right where I’d always intended it to be but never got the chance to put up.
And it’s not only the windows and logo—there also are soft, silky curtains drawn closed behind the glass, hiding what’s beyond it.
Reaching out, I hover my fingers over my name, tracing the P but without smudging the glass.
With trembling hands, I step up to the door. It takes me two tries to get the key in, and then I’m pulling it open.
This time, I do drop, falling against the wall, my hand flying to my mouth as a sob breaks free, my back sliding down until my butt hits the floor—the brand-new, freshly polished beautiful floor.
I can’t even handle it, covering my eyes as I try to make sense of this. As I try to breathe, the world around me goes still.
I sit that way for several moments before I force a full inhale, and my eyes flutter open.
The sight is…overwhelming. Dreamlike, with buttery yellow lights and the soft reflection of lavender.
The walls, once cracked with mildew stains seeping through, are now fresh and painted a bright white, burnished perfectly by the golden lighting spilling from the fixtures above. There’s no more crumbling drywall, no exposed beams, nothing left to remind me of the year of neglect following the storm that hollowed this place.
I flatten my palms on the gorgeous new floors and take a deep breath, my lips tipping up slightly at the crisp scents—the faint trace of wood and polish, something earthy that contrasts with it, and I suddenly need to know where it’s coming from. What it is and where I’ll find it.
I force myself to my feet, tucking my hair behind my ears as I slowly, hesitantly, move farther inside the space.
There are no holes in the ceiling where the pipes had once shown through, no sagging corners threatening to collapse. Instead, everything is tight, firm. The light from the mirrors reflects back at me—new mirrors rimmed with lights, almost blinding me with their warmth. The light fabrics move gently along the windows as if they’re waiting for the rhythm of dance to come back, for the laughter of little kids to fill the room.
There’s a toolbox against the wall, a few empty boxes piled in the corner—remnants of the transformation. There’s a half-built chair resting below the front window and some white slabs with hooks piled on top, like they have a clear purpose that just hasn’t been visualized yet. A little brown bag full of I don’t know what and a half-empty water bottle beside it.
My gaze lifts again, then out of the corner of my eye, I spot something I didn’t even think to look for. My eyes snap right to it, and my hand flies to my chest.
It’s right there, in the exact place I hung it in my desperate moment to feel like I hadn’t lost it all. I took a hammer and a tiny nail and drove it into the crumbling wall. I think it was even a little crooked, but I didn’t care.
It’s not crooked anymore, and the wall behind it is no longer a musty, ruined shade of cream and rotting water.
But it is in the same exact spot, the small shiny frame in the center of a larger one the exact same shade, closing off the large space around it, almost as if to protect the space, to deem it ours—mine and my dad’s—but it’s the 3D white butterflies scattered around it and the calligraphy that matches the font of my logo curved along the top that draw tears to my eyes.
A butterfly’s flight is eternal, carried by the winds of choice…
It’s the final thought my dad wanted to leave me with.
I clench my teeth when my lips start to tremble, the sentiment too much. Too real.
My fingers hover over the frame, and I gently pull it from the wall. The photo is my favorite, from a moment when my dad still looked healthy, even though we already knew he was sick and there would be no getting better. It was Mother’s Day, and I surprised him with a picnic lunch and movie tickets tied to a Best Mom Ever balloon. My lips curve at the memory. We had a good laugh over that.
My nose stings as tears threaten once more, and I pull the image closer, running my fingers along his face. That’s when I catch the hint of color at the bottom, where the slightly torn water damage ruined this image after the flood.