I watched him reach up on top of a shelf and take hold of something long and brown to bring down just as I heard Karen say, “Hi! I’m here,” as she opened the screened door to step in.

I turned to look at her with a big smile when I heard a loud noise like a car muffler’s pop and then saw Karen fall back onto the cement, never getting inside the door.

While sitting at my desk writing about the vivid memories of my childhood — specifically when I was seven, almost eight, when I lost my friend Charlotte — I can’t stop crying. Why am I sobbing about the loss of my friend so many years later, when I didn’t shed a tear at the time? I kept asking myself.