I get down on my knees and reach my arm under the mattress until it’s all the way under, the side of my face pressed against the edge. I feel for the photo and pull it out. It’s rippled and crumpled and there’s a stain across my mother’s face where I had to pick off a soup noodle after I saved it from the trash. It’s her wedding day and her dress is simple.

I tuck the picture in the corner of the bathroom mirror and study our faces, doing my best to ignore the swollen red marks on my cheek. I look like her, and I wonder what it is that’s different between the way Irene looks like her and the way I do. What makes it okay in Irene but not me? Maybe it’s the nose or something about the way my mother and I have the same dark eyelashes and a dimple in our chins when we smile.

This picture lady, in her white veil and bright blue eye shadow, plays my mother in every memory. When I think of her now, where she could be, what she might be doing, she’s still wearing her wedding dress and her face always has that perfect grin.

I slip her photo between the pages of my favorite book—the one she liked to read me about Max and all those wild things—and shove it in with the blankets. It’s the last bag. I tie it closed and throw it on top of the pile. I still don’t know what I’m doing. I pace until I do. A plan works its way into my head a step at a time and then it’s all there.

I open the last bag again, tear a page from the book, and sit down to write.

I walk past the elementary school on my way. My dad’s truck is on the grass even though there are still empty parking spaces. Mrs. Varnick’s car is in a handicapped spot but doesn’t have a sticker. Her grandson plays the violin and he sucks. Matty’s sister plays the recorder. I don’t know what Gary’s son plays, but I see his Harley. I wonder if Margo rode on the back. Those concerts take forever. Long and painful. Squeaking reeds and kids chewing on drumsticks when they aren’t hitting cymbals off beat.