The house smells musty ... empty. Now that the living days are over, the rooms despair alone. I enter slowly, my mind a blur of memories. No one is here to greet me now, and the kitchen clock ticks, eerily loud in the absence of life. Somehow, it has managed to outlive the living.

In the corners, the shadows whisper to me of days long gone, and oh, how I want them back. I want my family back. But time marches on, leaving me alone with these snapshots of my life. Our lives. Images, faded with time, to hold close as tears wet my face. I try to will the faces to speak to me. My whole being begs them to move. Emerge from the photos. But they stare out at me, and I can hear them telling me they're sorry. I hear them telling me they will be there. Where ever that may be, waiting patiently, until it's my turn to pass.

I hold the old shoebox in my lap and filter through the years of my life gone by the wayside, and beneath the many pictures, tucked inside soft felt, there is a key. The string tied to it holds a tiny note, folded carefully into a small square. I gently unfold the aging paper, and slowly read--the beautiful handwriting flowing, graceful ... familiar.

'Dear Susie, here is the key to my heart. Thank you for being my daughter. I love you. Mom.'

And the world blacks away from me, as my heart aches for her again.