The slow leak of tears turns into sobs pulled from the depths of my gut. The sobs turn to bellows. There’s no one to hear me, no one to be frightened by my primal display of pain. I unleash the monster of it, and we dance together in one long, ugly dance until I am too tired to move and it finally lets me sleep.

Hot sun beating down on my face wakes me. It’s streaming strong through the windows of May’s room, which means it must be midday at least. It’s stuffy and I’m sweating, even under the light quilt. My head throbs, and my eyes are swollen and feel as though bits of sand have scraped across their surface. That’s what crying will do. I don’t recommend it.

Throwing the covers back, I shuffle into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. I change into a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and my running shoes. Each task feels difficult. My body is so heavy with grief. My outpouring last night did nothing to exorcise it. Instead it feels stronger than ever, as though it’s taken over all of my soul instead of just one corner of it.

Downstairs I find the old CorningWare coffee percolator and plug it in to make coffee. The room quickly fills with the rich scent of it, making me feel a little more human. May and I took turns putting the coffee on each morning. My mother wouldn’t come down until she smelled it brewing.

I stand at the counter and can almost hear the delicate padding of her feet on the stairs behind me as she arrives for her first cup. As soon as she appeared, the energy of the room shifted, became weighted and charged at the same time. As her daughters, it was our job to read her expressions and mannerisms so that we knew how to proceed. Did she need extra attention that morning or space to be alone? Did she need the little white pills she kept in a case in her purse? Did she need compliments, affection, or silence?

Reading those signs was important; if we made even one misstep, we’d pay for it. Maybe just a harsh scolding, or a pile of chores heaped on us, or the silent treatment, or maybe, the very worst, a character assassination—being told what horrible daughters we were and why. Those moments were the ones that left scars, the internal kind, our personalities growing and developing around the bumpy scar tissue so that we were never really rid of them.