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It was an unseasonably warm August day, only two weeks before I would start college. The sun seemed unnaturally bright to me; the lack of clouds made me angry, infuriated at the sky's inappropriate cheer. It was a day for picnics and flirtation. Mothers are not buried on such days, I thought to myself. My mother deserved somber greys; the world should have been washed in it, made sterile and brittle in mourning for her.

We were back at my mother's house, an entire extended family in tow. My older sister was hosting a wake; always the good girl, she wanted to please the Welsh and Irish relatives. Three bottles of rye in, the family was waxing nostalgic as only a batch of drinkers can, reliving their favorite moments with my mother, fighting over claims about who loved her most. To me, she was a different person.

Although I didn't want to, I resented their intrusion on my grief. She was my mother, though they called her Anwen, and I wanted to hoard my memories of her, clutch them to me like a shield. I couldn't drink, although everyone would have allowed it, and I would never call my mother Anwen. She had always just been Mom, and to me she always would be. I didn't fit, a feeling I was used to, but it only made the pull of loss seem greater.

I wandered outside on my own, the bright day was starting to cool as the afternoon wore on, and I couldn't stand the house anymore, filled as it ...

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