Aurora 2025 with cover

Kay Shae

found in the rubble while trying to leave her neighborhood.” Looking up into the crowd, the glistening lights of tears spill over their faces. “My mother found her father at the military headquarters where he was stationed, although it took some time, and he raised me as his granddaughter.” Pictures of an older gentleman with silver strands of hair and crows feet cross the screen, holding a small child no older than eight with the slightest endearing smile. “My mother never told anyone her story, how she crawled through the wreckage, scarred her skin, and found a life that needed someone.” The final photo comes across the screen: an elderly lady with hair grayer than the raven black it once was, with long white scars across her forearms, still sharp and jagged as the day she got them, sitting elegantly in a bright crimson red chair, next to a middle age woman, still youthful despite her growing years, silver peeks through her dark black hair, as she holds her mother’s hand tightly as not to lose her, both smiling fondly and with love towards one another. “My mother and I, as well as our people, experienced something traumatic, but she found a light that lasted well into her years, and we became stronger because of it. I do not know what would have happened if the bombs didn’t fall, but I do know that I was greatly loved and protected.” Sitting back in the chair, I conclude my speech. One by one, the students come and talk, asking the questions they need to know. Silence fills the room once again, as the students left hours ago. As I watch photos pop onto the wall, I stare deeply into the memories they captured. I ran my hand along the inside of the armchair, touching the frayed fabric of the crimson chair, and pulled out a tiny, worn book from the nook. Its brightly colored crimson fabric is worn from use, and its spine cracked from being opened and read several times. My mother’s handwriting adorns the page, recounting her journey and how she survived. It seems I have read this a thousand times, recounting how she felt and how the war impacted her. These pages hold her life and mine. I flip through to the last page she wrote, words beautifully written against the aged yellow paper. You can cry now.

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