Middle-age woman, who likes to entertain had recently lost her spouse and thought that her life was worthless and she was useless. She had been putting mementos and photos in a scrapbox and album and reminiscing, when she had the idea to throw a party asking each guest to bring something old and nostalgic—a hankie, piece of jewelry, small tool, souvenir, button, playbill, or other small item. The idea was that each guest would have to tell the story behind the item.
Little did woman know that some guests would have surprising secrets to which their memento was tied. A prior life, a lost child, an accident--many had sadness attached to their mementos, but kept them to tie them to reality.
After listening to all the sad stories, woman decides her life wasn’t so bad after all, and that she had a purpose of being a friend to these people.
One night I was out walking through our neighborhood by the local park when I saw a father pushing his little girl on a swing set. A thought suddenly occurred to me, that if I really wanted to, I could be with Anthony. If I was only brave enough I could live with him forever; it would only take moments to end years of waiting. The thought kept cycling through my mind as I made my way home; it seemed like an amazing alternative to what I had been living with. I think I subconsciously noticed the danger in my line of thought, but consciously decided I didn’t care anymore. Nothing mattered to me in life, so I would find Anthony again not in my life, but in my death.
We all wanted to gasp, or comfort her, but to break the story of inner struggle would only belittle it. Amelia still looked like she was taking this story particularly harder than the rest of us, or maybe she just hid her emotions less. I couldn’t believe so much was pouring out of quiet little Sara, our first storyteller.
The pill bottle appeared in my hand almost as soon as I walked through the door. My hand trembled as I examined the medical information on the label. Then, I made my way to the kitchen. Bypassing the fridge, I grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a tumbler before heading into the living room. Then, sitting on the couch, I poured myself a glass of whiskey.
As I took sips of whiskey, I kept staring at the pill bottle. I don’t think I had quite consciously comprehended my reason for grabbing it, but my body knew what it was for. My pain was so intense and so consuming that I grew desperate for any semblance of relief.
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French
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Already translated.
Translated by Marine Guillerez
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Italian
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Already translated.
Translated by Nicole Stella
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Portuguese
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Already translated.
Translated by Suzana Lima
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Spanish
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Already translated.
Translated by Lilian G. Selvaggio
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