Summer 1991. The summer of The Great Divorce. The first summer we will ever be apart. You are 5 1/2, Erik is 4. You are sitting on the edge of your bed, watching me packing your suitcase. I lean over and hand you a little package. You open it, and find a bracelet inside. Erik and I have matching ones. “If you are ever lonely,” I say, “just look at the bracelet, and know that I’m wearing it, too. We’re always together.” I’m sure we are both crying, but I can’t remember that now. If I’d have known I wouldn’t have seen you at all for the next six weeks, I may have held you a little longer, or a little tighter. That may have made it worse - I don’t know. I just know that I remember watching you as you walked out the door, your little suitcase in hand, your bracelet on your left wrist. You turn back and smile that sweet little Kari smile and wave, just a little bit, trying to smile. I’m sure I waved back. I don’t remember.
