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you want to sit with your family that’s okay,” I said. (Inside I was cringing.)
    “No, no. I’ll sit with you.”
    “Thank you,” I said, and let out this tremendous breath.
    Carol looked at both of us for a very long time. “Nobody should have to go through what you’re going through,” she said softly, and tears came to her eyes. She stood up. “All right. I better go now. Dawn, are you going to come home tomorrow morning? Or do you want to go straight to the service with the Winslows?”
    “I’ll come home first,” said Dawn. “I need to change.”
    “Okay. See you in the morning, honey.” Carol kissed Dawn on the top of her head. Then she kissed me.
    And you know what? Even though Carol kissed me too, when I saw her lean down to kiss Dawn I felt this huge knot of jealousy form in me. If Carol had died, and Mom were sitting here with us instead, she would have kissed me first.
    But Mom is gone.
    Monday 3/22
    12:49 A.M.
    Well, technically it is now the day of Mom’s funeral. I know I should be sleeping. I have tried to sleep. But I just can’t do it. I was so hopeful after my good sleep last night.
    Dawn and I have been talking. Talking and talking and talking. Mostly about Mom. Of all my friends, Dawn knew her the best.
    Knew her.
    Now I have to write “knew” when I write about Mom.
    12:56 A.M.
    Had to stop for a few minutes.
    Tears.
    I don’t think I’ll ever go back and read this journal. I’m thinking of that summer (when? two
    [sic] years ago?) when I spent a week rereading all of my old journals. Every single one of them.
    In order. Starting with the very first one — second grade at Vista. If I ever do that again, I know that I will have to skip this one. It is actually tearstained. I can’t believe I wanted to chronicle the end of Mom’s life.
    Six nights ago when Dawn started to talk about Mom I stopped her. Tonight, after Carol left and after Dad and Aunt Morgan went to bed, we only talked about Mom. I started it.
    “Remember Mom and the pennies, Dawn?” I said. “The story you started to tell last week.”
    Dawn smiled. “Yeah … Is [sic] it all right to talk about it now?”
    I nodded. “I don’t think I can talk about anything but Mom. You know why?” (Dawn shook her head.) “I know it’s ridiculous, but she’s only been gone for two days and already I’m afraid I’ll forget her.”
    “Oh, Sunny, you’ll never forget her.”
    “What if I do?”
    “Look around you. There are reminders of her everywhere.” Dawn pointed to the photos of Mom, and to a vase Mom had made and the little rug she had woven. “And this is just in your room. Think of what’s downstairs. Not to mention what’s in photo albums and scrapbooks.”
    “I can’t explain it,” I replied. “I’m still afraid. That’s why I want to talk about her.”
    And that’s why I feel like writing about her now. I want to get everything down in this journal, even though I’ll probably never read it again.
    Here is the story about the pennies:
    One summer day — it was very hot, I remember — when Dawn and I were about eight, we were bored to tears. And I think we were driving our mothers crazy. So Mom said she would take us downtown for awhile [sic]. Dawn and I were thrilled at the prospect of an adventure. Also, we though Mom was going to buy us ice cream. So we piled into the car with our pockets full of spending money in case we also went to the toy store. To our surprise, though, after Mom had found a parking space and we started down Henry Street, Mom walked us right by both the ice cream shop and the toy store.
    “Where are we going?” I asked her. Then I noticed that Mom had pulled a bag of pennies out of her purse. “What are those for?”
    “Can you guess?” said Mom.
    “A wishing well?” Dawn suggested.
    Mom shook her head. “Nope.”
    “To throw in a fountain?” I said.
    “Nope.”
    “A gumball machine?” I said hopefully.
    Mom smiled. But she said “nope” again.
    Dawn and I