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Here is the photograph and my story:
What We Don’t Remember
“Cindy.” The Inspector smiled at me. Perhaps he was expecting a smile in return – one I did not give him. “Thank you for waiting,” he said.
And well he should be thankful, too. I’d waited, as he’d asked, for 10 minutes in a room with no windows, colored in hues of beige and a slightly darker beige.
I was tired from the day trip my senior group had taken. We’d stopped at one of those road stop places. The sort that sells saltwater taffy and carved statues of local wildlife. This particular one had a lime green alien statue welcoming visitors to the shop.
“Is there anything else you remember about the child?” the inspector asked me. Apparently, a child had gone missing about the same time our senior van arrived at the road stop.
And that’s when I started crying. I wanted to remember, but I couldn’t.