Memories of Bonnie

After some encouragement, I have decided to write a memoir of my journey with Bonnie.  The tentative title is "My Faith Through Her Eyes."

I have been writing, as opposed to blogging.  Here is the current prologue:

Prologue

“They’re here, girls,” I heard my mother whisper emphatically as she quickly pulled the drapes closed.  Her white nightgown glided behind as she ran to secure the drapes closed.  As usual, my sister and I were watching cartoons and ignored her plea.  “Come on, girls, hurry it up,” my mother scolded as she shut off the television.  The sound of panic in her voice assured us she meant business.

“Don’t say a word, not even a whisper,” my mother said, as she motioned for us to join her on the floor.  We immediately fell to the floor, crawled beside my mother, and laid next to her hiding ourselves behind the front door.  I tried to peek through the sliver of light shining through the drapes, but my mother immediately covered my eyes with her hands and pulled me closer.  “Stay perfectly still,” she softly reiterated.  The three of us, concealed by an afghan my sister had grabbed off the couch, could have been mistaken for a pile of laundry left on the living room floor.  

There was a knock at the door, and fear pricked every nerve in my body.  I turned rigidly to look at my sister, and noticed streaks of tears running down her face.  This really wasn’t any different from any other day; my sister was always crying or complaining about something.  My mother had said they were here.  It was our turn.  We were next.

I said a silent prayer.  I prayed that they would leave us alone, and that we could return to as we were before.  But there was another knock, and another - much louder this time.  I tried to breathe without making a sound.  What if I gave us away?  I held my sister’s hand, closed my eyes tightly, and hoped the knocking would stop.  

My sister began to squirm under the midsummer heat of the afghan.  I began kicking away my sister’s feet, and a sound, barely audible exited with my exhale.  My mother’s eyes were round as saucers, as she held her finger over her mouth.  She knew we were being as good as two little girls could be in this circumstance.  We were on summer vacation, and kids are supposed to be laughing and having fun.  Now we were trying to evade them.

We stayed together that way for what seemed like an eternity, but what was most likely two minutes.  The knocking ceased, and my mother slowly crawled to the window and gently pulled back the curtain.  She sat down and took a deep breath, “They’ve gone girls.”  We all smiled and did a collective sigh of relief.  They had gone.  The Jehovah’s Witnesses had left us a magazine in our mailbox, which assured us freedom for another month.