Suburban Horror Story

This week we got another one of those "have you seen me?" postcards printed on cheap blue cardstock. We used to collect them and stick them on the refrigerator in order of date. Those who had been missing the longest were on the bottom, while the most recent ones were stuck at the top. We used to call them the lost kids and pretend they were the ones who were finally able to escape this suburban monotony and make it to Neverland. We knew better though. "You know they are never coming back right?" she used to say with her eyes, big and solemn, "make sure you don't end up as one of them." 

June passes into July. The fridge gets so crowded we have to move some of the older kids to make room for more. We put away the 5-year-old brunette who disappeared from the car lot of the local grocery store in 1981 with a heavy heart. But it wasn't until August, a particularly hellish August, when she finally disappeared from the playground where all the neighborhood kids liked to hang. Then the police came with their sniffer dogs and uniformed men with their mouths set in a grim line. And even before Mummy came home to tell me the bad news, I already knew what had happened. It was only a matter of time before her face ended up on the fridge. I've gotten used to seeing her every morning as I reach for the orange juice - I don't think I could ever forget that face.