June 8, 1974

Dear Diary,

It seems weird to be here in Nampa and not be eating warm peach pie with ice cream. Aunt Connie has always made us peach pie when we visit.

But she's not here. That's the weirdest part of all.

Grandpa keeps excusing himself and going out to the garage. I know he's crying; we all know, but no one is talking about it. He keeps looking at me, and I see the question in his eyes: "Is she with us?"

But she's not here. I have been all through the house, and I have called for her when I can be sure no one is listening, but there's been no answer. I don't see her anywhere.

Grandpa told me once that his father could see the ancestors. It's good to know that I'm not the only one, but it doesn't mean that Grandpa can tell me anything. There's no rule book. There's no magic incantation to bring someone to you.

Well, not that I know of, anyway. And I don't know much, that's for sure.

I want so much to be able to tell Grandpa something--anything. That's his sister. I know how I would feel if it was my sister. I would be making deals with God, probably.

God doesn't make deals.

You know what, Diary? I didn't know I could feel so sad about someone I saw maybe once a year. But I'm here in her house, and helping my Aunts go through her things and pack them away, and I miss her so much.

It has nothing to do with peach pie, but the smell of that baking is painfully absent. I have never been in her house without smelling that. I have never sat in her front room and not heard the heavy clomping of her heels--she wore shoes with these thick heels. No one else I have ever known wore heels like that.

And her laugh...she had a loud laugh, you know.

No one is laughing in here today.

I don't think she would like that. She would want people laughing in her house.

I believe she will come to me someday, you know. I just wish it could be today. Grandpa needs something...and all I can offer is a hug.

I guess for now, that will have to be enough.

I'm going out to the garage now.

Your friend,

Emma