At the stroke of
midnight, the spell will be broken. – Fairy Godmother
It is the eleventh hour on the eve of the ball and I am once
again wishing that the fairy godmother that eludes us all will appear. Because
the carriage looks like a pumpkin and the mice need a keeper. Because I feel
less princess and more scullery maid.
Because unless I add four inches to my
less-than-lofty frame, the dress that magically appeared yesterday has the
potential to send me careening into the emergency room.
I need slippers. 4-inch-tall slippers.
I really could be better prepared, I suppose. After all … it happens every year.
It’s a wonderful event that celebrates so many lights that
went out too early, not in somber reflection but with joy that fills the room with
all of the hearts and souls they touched. And they are honored deeply, not
simply in memory but in the hundreds of thousands of dollars in scholarships
that propel children of first responders toward their futures and their dreams.
Young faces full of promise flash across the screen alongside those gone in
whose name they are being recognized, a tribute to the promise of the future
and the legacy of the past. For those of us who remain, we stand quietly proud
while the bagpipes wail and we remind ourselves again that this, too, is
evidence that we have not failed the memory and we’ve found good in the bad.
And for just a few hours we float like princesses up the
sweeping steps.
In 4-inch slippers.
