by Abigail Peabody
Please contact Abigail Peabody if found!!!!
DESCRIPTION: My mom cannot remember anything of that house in Texas, except that it was brick, maybe, and she had a tricycle in the backyard. She cannot recall the TV, only that someone took it.
LAST SEEN: A few days after her parents’ death. The date is unknown, blurred with snapshots of the babysitter staying so late the night of the plane crash and the neighbors’ house afterward and the first morning Mamaw brushed her hair. The TV left some time between the casseroles being dropped off and the relatives passing through. All my mom asserts is that her grandmother said, “Your Aunt Cricket could use a TV,” while her dad’s side of the family packed up her clothes and Barbies.
IF FOUND: Turn it on, and maybe there will be a picture in color, something more than the one black-and-white photo of my grandpa laying on a beach towel and my mom playing in the sand next to him. I don’t know what color hair he had or if it’s the same as mine.
CONTACT: Me. I am the one she passes down her emerald ring to before she dies. She describes her eighteen-year-old insistence on having nice jewelry, the boyfriend who wore cowboy boots and saved up to buy her a 0.25-carat emerald ring for Christmas, and the second emerald ring she opened that Christmas from Mamaw and Poppy—a one-carat ring I now wear on my pinky finger because I know my hands are bigger than hers.