Chapter 2: Emma

As she looked at her mother, she couldn't help but notice her slim frame. The black dress that had fit her only weeks ago now looked to be two sizes too big and the pain in her eyes let her know the toll losing her love was taking on her.

Her mother glanced around the room as if she expected someone else to be there and then back to Emma.

"I knew I would find you in here."

She walked up near the desk and looked down at the various stacks of pictures.

"He never stopped working, did he?"

Emma bit her lip and looked back to the photos. "He loved his pictures almost more than his sunrises."

Her mother crossed her arms and cleared her throat. "You're just like him, same passion for your work, same-" Her voice trailed off.

Emma sighed and looked back to the picture as she ran her finger over his writing. She and her father had always shared a special connection. Most of it revolved around pictures, and she had even gone into photography and journalism in college, but she had found more success through her writing.

During college, she had been chosen for an internship at Time magazine, and after several years of challenging work she had secured a regular position with the magazine. Emma had sworn her father had finagled the position for her somehow, but he would never own up to it. He had been very proud of her success, but she never believed her work was good enough for the accolades she received or the praise he poured over her.

Emma looked up from the pictures expecting her mother to still be looking on, but her attention seemed to be on something across the room. She studied her face for a moment and then looked to where her gaze fell.

"Everything okay, Mom?"

She didn't answer. She only turned from the desk and moved closer to one of the bookshelves on the far wall. Emma watched as she walked over to it, wondering what it was that had captured her attention. She now stood in front of a tall wooden shelf that must have been eight feet tall. She looked up to it as if contemplating its contents.

Emma watched as she reached for a small step stool by the wall and placed it in front of the shelf.

"Mom let me help you with that." She pushed back from the desk. "You don't need to be on that stool."

She looked over to Emma, mustering a smile, and raised her hand. Emma stopped in her tracks and watched as her mother stepped up on the rubber tread on top of the stool. She placed her hands on the shelf in front of her and stretched out every inch of her five-foot-four frame as she reached for a leather satchel perched on one of the top shelves. Emma anxiously watched as she stood poised to run to her in case she fell.

Her mother reached for the bag, sliding it closer to the edge and, as she recovered it from its resting place, she pulled it close to her chest. As she stepped from the stool, she inhaled deeply. Emma must have been holding her breath while watching as she exhaled heavily at the relief of seeing her mother back on the ground.

"Mom, what is that? What was so important that you had to get up on that stool? You shouldn't be climbing up there; you could have fallen."

Her mother looked to the satchel and back to Emma.

"Falling is the least of my worries, Em."

She grumbled under her breath, "Yeah I can see that mom."

Her mother scowled at her.

"Your father put this up there for you."

She looked at the worn leather bag and back to her mother.

"For me. Why did Dad put it up there for me?"

Her mother mustered a smile. "I guess you'll have to open it and find out."

She walked toward the desk, placing the bag on the corner, and looked into Emma's eyes.

"He said you would know what to do with it when the time was right."

She studied her daughter for a moment and then reached out, touching her cheek.

"You know, you have his eyes too." She mustered half a smile and then looked to the bag.

"It's all there, Em."

She looked to her daughter, almost squinting.

"What's all there, Mom?"

Tears now streamed down her mother's cheek.

"His memories." She shrugged. "Our memories really, our life and, well, all of him; we worked on it for years." She seemed to gasp for air as tears now flowed freely. Emma stood up wanting to comfort her, but her mother raised her hand again, stopping her.

"No." She dropped her hand to her side. "You have work to do anyway."

She paused there for a moment longer and then turned for the door. Emma watched as she disappeared around the corner. She wanted to go to her. She took a deep breath as she looked to the doorway. She felt helpless. Every time she tried to comfort her mother, she pushed her away. Emma tried to convince herself it was part of the grieving process, but it still hurt. She let out a big sigh and turned her attention back to the bag.

She ran her hands over her jeans as if she were warming her legs and patted her thighs. She looked back to the doorway again and wished for a moment she could help her mother find some peace. She sighed heavily again and then looked back to the tan leather of what appeared to be an old messenger's bag.

She found the whole situation to be a bit peculiar because her father was not much for fanfare, and the mystery behind the bag made her feel intrigued, but apprehensive at the same time. She shook her head as she reached for it and then undid the leather strap on its front that held it shut. As she folded back the top and peered inside, she found what appeared to be three large books. She pulled out the contents, setting the bag to the side, and studied the first book.

It was the size of a large coffee-table book and was made of a heavy reddish-brown paper. It reminded her of something she had seen in a scrapbooking class one of her girlfriends had taken her to. Around the edge, there was a small band of gold inlay that served as a border for the front cover. Near the binding, large brass fasteners were inserted, holding the book and its overflowing contents together. In the middle of the cover was a small box with a title written on it in perfect, large, scrolling letters. She read it aloud.

"Lost Sunrise,"