She was no more than eight or nine years old, with dirty hair and tear-filled eyes.
As soon as I laid my eyes on that backpack, I was sure my heart had skipped a beat.
“Are you Randy’s mom?”
I nodded, unable to say anything more.
“I know that you were looking for this, right?”
My eyes locked on the familiar Spider-Man fabric.
“What do you mean by that?”
She hugged it even tighter.
“Randy told me to hold onto it; he was my best friend.”
“What is your name, darling?”
“Sarah.”
I asked her softly to come in, and she took a moment but finally came into the kitchen with the bag, as if it were something precious that she carried.
“I haven’t stolen it,” she said hastily.
“I believe you.”
“I was protecting it.”
It felt like my heart was being shattered by those words.
Sarah put the bag on the kitchen table with both hands.
“Open it,” she said.
My fingers shook as I slowly unzipped it.
Inside were balls of lavender and white yarn, knitting needles, and folds of tissue paper enclosing something soft.
