For many years when I thought of my mother, I had to walk through the Cocoanut Grove to get to any other memories. I had to imagine where she might have been, what part of the building, what table, when she realized that her life was in danger. Then I had to traverse the lobby of Mass General, the large clock ticking, my father’s hands clasped, and then Southern Mortuary, to those terrible moments staring at her blackened hand exposed there on the white sheet.

I wanted to be like my mother, but I recognize our differences. I am someone interested in shoes that blend in—the feathered plumes of a more cautious bird, one safely sheltered in a nest; I like black leather or the pale pink of ballet slippers, soft as skin. I like shoes that blend, protect, comfort. Even now, I see young women clomping along in their boots or stilettos, heels so high their knees often bow out like someone just off of a horse, or about to have a gynecological procedure. I have seen Polly and Lindsey, in fact; Becca, you know it is true. I feel a pain in my lower back to watch, jarred by the clip-clopping that counteracts what is meant to appear smooth and sophisticated and sexy. You yourself wore those way-up platforms in high school, and I was amazed you never broke something. Those shoes are for sitting, legs crossed, perhaps with a sign that says “I am exotic, like an animal in the zoo.” My mother liked being noticed. She liked the flamboyant accessories: the flamingo, the peacock.

In my fantasies, I often wear peacock blue or Moroccan red. And whenever I imagine confronting people, I am always dressed vibrantly, in clothes I never would really wear in life. I remain the colors of soft earth; I am sandalwood, buff. I am careful. That’s why I stretched out beside you all those nights, my head leaned close enough to smell the milky scent of your sighs, to see your chests rise and fall, feel your breath. “I’m here. Mommy’s here,” I whispered if you shifted in your sleep.

Lately, I don’t trust what your father says, and what a shock that has been after these many good years that restored my faith. Every time he leaves the house, I question if he is really going where he says he is going. One day, he said he was going to have his car serviced, but later when I called, that wasn’t true. I almost confronted him when he came home, but then something about the way he acted, something so fragile, made me keep the questions to myself.