I relax back on my hands as the snow seeps through my jeans and stare at her gray headstone, trying to gather my thoughts. “I’m not even sure what to say,” I say aloud, my breath fogging out in front of me. “I know I should come visit more, but I don’t live here any longer.” I set my sketchpad and pencil aside and lean forward, resting my arms on my knees. “So I moved to California… I have a home and everything, which is weird, but nice, I guess.” I breathe in and breathe out. “Everything is nice really.” I pause. “I’m sorry you never got your nice… I started reading your journal and I was hoping it’d have some nice in it, but there isn’t any, not really.” I shut my eyes as the cold air kisses my cheek. “I really would like to know if you ever did get any sort of happy. I know Dad said he thinks that you might have been happy sometimes, but he didn’t sound like he fully believed it. And I know that sometimes you can fake it because that’s what I do sometimes. I actually used to do it a lot, but not so much anymore… anymore when I’m happy. I think it’s real.” My words are true, real, honest. I want to know if she was ever really happy, but maybe it’s better not knowing since maybe the answer’s not what I want to hear. Maybe she’d tell me no, that she was never happy—not ever. Not when she was younger, when she got married, had kids. I’ve been in that place where depression was everything but it’s not my life anymore and I couldn’t even begin to imagine not getting a glimpse of happiness that I feel now. If depression was all she ever had then it would be sad and tragic and heartbreaking.