EMMALINE
Every year, for the past five years, this day brings nothing but horrible memories and sadness with it. My parents’ death anniversary sits in my chest like a small, hard stone. It shapes the way I move and the way the light feels. I know the date without thinking. I know how the air smells on that morning, like cold coffee and laundry that never dries all the way. I know the shape of the grief.
I asked Maggie about the nearest temple last night. I wanted to light a candle for them and pray. Normally Luca and I go to their grave with their favorite flowers. We say the things we have trouble saying out loud on any other day. We hold hands and let the wind take our words. But I’m far from home now. This will have to do.
I get ready slowly, as if the act of dressing will steady som
