Poppy and the Diamond Ring
Inside was a photograph of two girls in matching yellow dresses.
One was eight.
The other could not have been more than five.
The older girl was me.
The younger girl was the sister I had been told died in a flood fifty-eight years earlier.
On the back, in my mother’s handwriting, were six words: Helen and Evie, before everything changed.
I stood in my doorway unable to move.
Then I heard Poppy behind me.
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