A Quite Moving Day #3
I gasp, letting the cool evening air calm me. “You really did work so hard to get sober, to try to stay sober, and I wish
you’d known that I knew that. You didn’t choose the disease, but how you fought it, I admired you. I just . . . I always thought
there’d be more time to tell you.”
I pull out the Pez dispenser I’d been carrying around in my purse for six weeks. I knew what it meant when I bought it that
night; I don’t want to live with regret anymore. I don’t want to hurt people to get ahead. I don’t want to keep running from
my past just to feel like I’m worthy. I don’t want to do something I hate just to feel like shame can’t reach me. Yoshi stares
back at me.
I think I’ve known what I needed to do for a while, but opening my dad’s box, being here. It all feels so obvious now.
“Dad, I’m quitting my job.” And even though I’m speaking to a man who can’t answer, saying these words here feels more final
than the idea of emailing my boss. (Obviously, I’ll need to do that next.)
I leave Yoshi on top of my dad’s headstone. “I hope you’ll forgive me too,” I whisper.
And as I walk away, seeing all these markers for lives lived, knowing my dad could’ve done better, but so could I, so could
everyone—I finally feel the weight of all my mistakes ease, just a bit.
All we have is the time we’re given. There’s time enough to make mistakes. But if we’re lucky, we get enough time to make
amends.
And so long as I’m here, it’s not too late.
Buried between piles of blazers and work trousers (all now dreadfully wrinkled), I extract the shoebox Irene gave me before
I left Valleyview Apartments. It’s scuffed up and smells faintly of mothballs and old paper.
I open the lid and find several paper envelopes—the kind pharmacies used to deliver photographs in after developing them.
I pull dozens of photos from each and spread them out across my bed’s comforter.
There in glossy color is Valleyview Apartments, a younger, slightly fresher version—brickwork still sharp, windows less dirty, the grass out front neatly trimmed.
The photo is centered on a group of kids in bell-bottoms holding balloons on the front lawn beside a birthday cake on a folding table.
I flip to the next one, which seems to have been taken on the same day.
A pretty woman in high-waisted jeans is standing at the entrance to the lobby, a party hat sitting between her curls. I recognize her instantly: Irene.
There are inside shots too—the old rec room in the basement with its wood paneling and a dartboard (Carmen must never know).
A giant Christmas tree in the lobby.
Next are photos from around the neighborhood. A sign for Barry’s Video & Games. The florist shop Sami had told me about, with
giant bouquets in the windows and a hand-painted Open sign. A snapshot of a young couple, holding hands in front of a café
with a Persian name in neon cursive. Their son, with dark brown hair and a cheeky expression, like he’s just about to start
laughing. Sami. He’s standing in front of them with a juice box. The café theme clearly hadn’t lasted long. But that look
in his parents’ eyes? Pure pride.
And then, tucked at the bottom of the box, I find older photos—black-and-white, edges worn soft. The building looks brand
new, almost proud of itself, with neat flower boxes under the windows and a hand-carved wooden sign above the door displaying
its name. On either side, you can see the outlines of neighboring buildings, built in the same style—structures that are long
gone now.
I sit on the bed for a long time with that shoebox open in front of me. It’s a little overwhelming. I thought I knew this
building—but this feels different, like Irene handed me the memories closest to her heart.
Later that afternoon, I take the whole box to a copy shop. I carefully photocopy every photo, then buy some plastic sleeves
to preserve the real ones.
That night, I stay up far too late piecing everything together. It feels like the good old days, when I’d pull an all-nighter
designing a presentation for a particularly demanding client.
I choose music that didn’t feel manipulative. Just honest. I put the photos in a sequence that tells a story—not just of a
building, but of time. Of care. Of belonging.
Then I build the website. A clean, simple GoFundMe page. I title it Help Rebuild Valleyview. I write a few paragraphs about the fire, the displaced tenants, a community in limbo. But mostly, I let the photos do the
talking.
Before I can second-guess myself, I post it.
And then I share the link on Instagram. I’m social-media friends with a lot of my former clients. I’m hoping at least a few
of them will repost. Supporting a feel-good local story is always a good look for a company’s image.
I find a community Facebook group, and a neighborhood subreddit where everyone usually just complains about parking, and post
the link there too.
I open the Valleyview Slack thread on my phone. I hover my thumb over the chat bar, then swipe the app closed.
I sit back and stare. For the first time in days, my heart feels full. Not hopeful, exactly—but grounded. Like I’ve done something
right.
Or at least something true.