Dawn Will Bring Us Death

***Dawn Will Bring Us Death*** is the fourth chapter of *Winter's Tales*.

## Synopsis

Everything in life seems to be soaring for Winter, who has forged her connection with her mother deeper and long-broken the shackles her father kept her in. However, tragedy strikes when the person she loves the most is claimed by the sickle of death. Now, Winter must turn to her father when she needs him the most to care for her and mend what is shattered.

## Warnings

### Content Warning

*This chapter contains heavy usage of subjects pertaining to death and loss, which can be sensitive and/or triggering.*

### Disclaimer

*Varien will be referred to with female pronouns in part of the chapter in reference to the two years after coming out before he used masculine pronouns again. The events in the chapter have been mirrored to match real life; Varien will be referred to with his correct pronouns in a later chapter.*

## Dedication

*Dedicated to my mother, who has fought breast cancer and is winning her battle with flying colors. You'll never know when tragedy can strike your family, but you can always make good from any tragedy and turn it to a miracle. Love you, Mom - Av XOXO*

## Transcript

*"I tell myself that, now you are but a dream..."*

*"And to let you go..."*

*Death. The grim aspect of life, a fate tied around our fingers for the rest of our years on the earth, staring at our souls with slitted red eyes.*

*Earth can't revolve on its axis without death. A human dies, life goes on. A pet dies, life goes on.*

*Death is destructive, shattering all hopes alike and smothering them in eternal darkness. Families can break apart, drifting away in the ocean, or... families can grow close together, learn from the death, and reflect on their stances and constitutes. Are they right or wrong?*

*Death is a gripping, chilling influence that pushes the human race to do good or result in the roots of baleful evil.*

*Rarely, dying is considered to be a "positive" thing. It's a haunting, harrowing, asphyxiating, bone-crushing nightmare that never ends.*

*Losing someone you love can destroy parts of yourself. They wither away, vanishing without a trace left behind. Bodies grow cold, empty, lifeless.*

*And the human asks themselves, "Where did I go wrong?"*

*"What did I do to deserve this?"*

*Death is horrible, perilous, agonizing. Death is the catalyst of something bleak, dark, hiding in the blue, not striking until the human is unsuspecting. Stolid.*

*It's never, EVER easy to cope with losing a loved one. Our family members, our parents, our grandparents. Our pets. Our friends. Death affects us all in every way. Death's a part of our lives whether we want it there or not.*

*It cannot be avoided. It cannot be shunned. Death will be our fate when the time comes.*

*But death can be fought. Alone, we are weak, but together, an army is built. A barrier constructed that keeps the death at bay. Over time, we start to heal from the death, moving on, letting ourselves pick up the pieces, even if they're glass shards that leave lacerations on our skin.*

*In my case, death put a heavy, but mature perspective on my back - at any given moment, someone in front of us could die. We could lose the very person we love. I'm not a stranger to losing fights against the earth, less have reality break my backbone until I'm unable to stand.*

*Death comes, it goes. A person we love is gone, up in the skies forever, where they reside among light and the pearly gates. Death also brings out the worst in people, the grief and its compelling way of driving people to lash out and do the unthinkable.*

*As Varien would put in a later project of his, who has no house now, he will never build.*

*With the rise of the sun and the dawn of a new day comes the unvanquished, rotting death - and when it affected me most, I sat there, a hollow log with a hushed soul, asking myself the following:*

*"How would I rediscover my wings and take flight through the rain again?"*

Finally, after months of the silent War Without Words, months of the mining and discovery to find myself, months where Father and I bickered, the war had come to a ceasefire.

The treaty was my cut head during Hannukkah, taken as Yahweh's blessing that I, the recalcitrant, finnagling child, had won what I wanted the most.

*Autonomy*.

Glorious, precious, unwavering, *holy* autonomy.

Oh, did I mention the day I shaved my head was *also* my ninth birthday? Time sure does fly by in the greens and yellows. That's also kinda the reason Father complied with the *Unapologetic* Rihanna haircut.

I knew he'd slap himself on both wrists every night if he *ruined* my birthday over religious teachings. But I've made my point clear. Let's move on, shall we?

Tensions in the family relaxed, quashed significantly, and Father was less outspoken. I appreciated his newfound quietness; being screeched at every waking day of my existence for breaking some unwritten rule somewhere in the Holy Book I Didn't Believe In was *tiresome* and *extremely aggrivating*.

I wasn't the only one reaping in the pros from the drama quash, as Mom wasn't required to yell as much as she needed to. Much of her physical strength returned, and the house wasn't filled with the screaming between two flagrant parrots who played Opinion Wars with each other, one taking my side, the other taking the side of fictious scrawlings.

I had *everything* I *wanted*.

You hear that sound of crickets?

Well... I *almost* had everything I wanted.

There was just one eensey beensey little *price* to having a semi-shaved head.

"Dad, what do you *mean* I have to wear *this* to synagogue now?" I asked Father when he put a floppy beach hat, long and having a *neon cyan* ribbon (send help) tied around the top, in my hands, the scratchy straw poking my palms.

"*This* is going to conceal the shaved side of your head. I fear the elders are going to see this as an ill omen, and then our reputation's out like the Titanic," Father responded flatly, which was his *no funny business* tone.

Oh *great*.

I didn't even *like* beach hats. That was more of Mom's style.

Couldn't he just go to the mall, enter Lids, and get me a ball cap? *Those* were cool.

Or maybe I'd took too tomboyish and that would scatter Father's nerves like a bunch of checkers wiped off a game board.

Go figure... I had to continue obeying the Holy Book I Didn't Believe In.

Which meant wearing this... *straw thing* to the Holy Place.

I obeyed, not willing myself to waste the freedom I had fought to obtain for *months*, and it was *very unpleasant*.

The hat was tight, and it itched like hell, dropping ants like bombs onto my scalp, and it took *all* of my nerve, *all* of my power, to not yank it off, stomp it into the regal flooring of the synagogue, and tell Father he was absolutely stupid for instructing me to wear it.

Hell, I scratched at it several times, but Mom would take up my hand, caress it, and tell me to take it by the horns.

Mom's sympathy and encouragement was something I valued, but it wasn't enough to convince me that this hat was going to stay in my collection permanently.

I vowed to get rid of it when I moved out of the house and turned eighteen.

Subsequently, Varien announced that she was working on her then-unnamed second studio album, elating me, and I couldn't help but ponder about what my God was cooking up this time.

More nature, like *Ancient & Arcane*? More Asian culture, like *Mirai Sekai*? Or just random, out the box, and stacked to the brim with magical creativity?

The possibilities were endless, and by stealing Mom's phone (I was one year shy of being allowed my first foray on social media), I kept in touch with the album's development, eager for what Varien would place in the music cornucopia next.

Over the months, she'd release tiny snippets of the songs, causing the EDM community and her fanbase to go bat-stuff *crazy*. I'd listen, detecting *dark* components, *temptation* in these tracks.

*Heavy* components.

For sure darker than *Ancient & Arcane*. I couldn't wait, and each time a snippet dropped, my toes got to work doing a *tap tap* on the wrinkles making up my bedspread.

Although Father's volcano had cooled, his temper hardening into igneous rock, the *strict* "I take zero crap from you" side was still evident, sticking out, a tree branch in a rocky cleft.

He still kept a hundred tabs on me, though I was nine and more capable of doing things on my own and succeeding in school. It was like his shadow was still there, but just coiled up underneath the soles of my flat shoes.

Always watching, McCormick. Always watching...

Nevertheless, Father *did* accept my *bold* statement of a haircut, and he didn't plan to force me to grow out my hair nor adominish me for my unusual choices.

"Winterlyn, I can't *force* your hair to stay long forever, or stop you from making the choices *you* make. Even if I may disagree, or voice my concerns... I *love you*, and your happiness matters more than me using my stance to persuade you otherwise," he told me once, hugging me and giving me a forehead kiss.

Yeah, sure, you *love me*. How does it feel to eat your own words, Father? I hope they tasted brackish when you did so years later.

Winter descended on Pineshadow in flurries of snow that quickly acculmulated into torrents of snow, and for the first time in two decades, *thundersnow*.

Thundersnow is a bizarre weather phenonemon where thunder accompanies a snowstorm, though thunder is typically the grand guest of a - you know it - thunderstorm.

With the thundersnow, Pineshadow was *buried* deep in white. A *voluminous* white field, cluttering yards, the branches of barren trees, roads, and the front steps of even the most nicely decorated houses.

With the thundersnow *also* made Mom go into her regular winter-season hibernation. Avoiding the outside, she'd hunker down in the house, wrapped in three Tuesday Morning (THIS RETAILER I SWEAR TO GOD-) blankets with a mug of homemade hot chocolate and a book to read.

This ensured that Mom would stay toasty and keep her lupus from wilding. She did miss seeing me play in the snow and regretted not being able to help Father clear out the driveway and hack at the ice and sleet on the sidewalk, but her health was far more important than Washington's snow days.

Early on, I taught myself to be *grateful* that she was still alive. One thing I loved about Mom was that she made the best out of anything.

No snow day? She could see me smile by just glancing out the window.

Unable to help Father? Order him some equipment online. Amazon wasn't invented for nothing!

Couldn't go outside for photography? The windows were transparent, and that worked for outside.

Mom always found a way to make it *work*. She was tenacious, finding some way to middle finger the world and make the most out of *everything*.

But Mom's hunkering down in blankets and sipping of hot chocolate didn't stop the lupus from flaring up. Only so much could be alleviated with the usage of Methotrexate.

Her symptoms flared up *dramatically*. Her muscles and joints ached frequently, stiffened, frozen in place as if they were icicles hanging off the gutter, and when Mom tried to move them, she'd find herself in the Land of Excruciating Pain.

Her *ows* and *ouches* were heard around the house, and Father and I swiftly settled her down, urging her to rest. We made sure she *did*, because knowing Mom, she couldn't be put down all that fast.

Mom's health was *key*. It could not spiral. Spiraling was *not an option*. Her immune system was weak, and her flareups made it weaker.

Mom took breaks from walking to and fro, sometimes by our persuasion, and when she couldn't reach the kitchen, Father would cook in her place and bring her food.

Father was actually a great cook, come to think of it. He made some *really* tasty sandwiches and soups. I'm not kissing that cook, though.

Aching in her muscles and joints soon gained a companion in the breakout of flaky red rashes on her pale skin. On her ankles, rising to her kneecaps, on her arms, extending to her shoulder blades, and on her face, under the chin and behind the ears.

They itched, causing Mom to use up numerous CeraVe containers, and Father had to run to the pharmacy to buy her more.

However, the rashes were like weeds in Mom's garden, and they sprung up again and again.

"Lorelei! Your body's covered in all these rashes... don't you think you should consult your doctor?" Father asked one time when Mom's cheeks bloomed with red blisters.

"I'm fine, honey," she retorted, sighing in exasperation. "I'm on my medication. It's just the weather... I'll be okay."

Her words were reassuring, but doubt trickled in to the confident me. Mom was a fighter. Mom had been fighting lupus long before my birth.

Sure, Mom was weak, but she wasn't *frail*.

But with every year, she was aging, and the more her flareups intensified with age, the more I secretly feared *it*.

The dark face shriveled in the corner with malevolent red eyes. Waiting for its victim. A soul to consume.

Lupus progressively worsened with age. Doubt prickled me here, and there, and back there, and up front. That Epipen was stabbing worry over me and resisting the part of me that was telling me to listen to Mom.

Mom would be fine. Mom would be not fine.

Two sides that could only have one outcome.

It wasn't just the aches and the rashes. Mom's mouth was sore, her lips dry and cracked. Chapstick provided aid, but she was unable to properly eat solid foods.

Father brought her liquid foods, like yogurt, and protein shakes to fuel her body with nutrients. Her body couldn't just substain on that, which Father realized, and so, he resulted to doing a task that made my stomach cringe with odd feelings.

He *helped* Mom eat by feeding her like a *baby*.

Spoonfuls right up to the mouth... and when I was a baby, he did the same for me.

*Good lord*.

Mom was clearly embarrassed, as she felt like she was suddenly a child again, and blush appeared under the rashes on her cheeks.

Mom took it by the horns, utilizing her own advice. She knew she couldn't complain about this goofy tactic - she *needed* to eat in order to keep lupus from permanently destroying what was left of her immune system.

I, being Father's dutiful assistant, provided comfort to Mom, and I hugged her often, rested my head in the crook of her shoulder, blew her kisses, gave her kisses. I showed her my undying support of her, encouraged her to battle on, battlecry or not.

"I love you, mom," I'd tell her. "I love you so much. You've got this. You won't let lupus win."

"I love you too, Winterlyn. So incredibly much. You've come so far... and I will prevail. I'll live a long happy life with lupus as my roommate. Thank you, my darling."

I *did* come so far, thanks to Mom and of course my other influences. But Mom was the parent to *understand* me the most. Why I was so crass, aiming to be unique.

She'd conquered Father and hung up the laundry to dry.

She had a wonderful garden and urged me to grow when Father wanted to cut the buds of my curiosity.

I *loved* Mom with my *entire heart*. And now, Mom *needed* me more than ever, to be the sun when she couldn't venture outside, to be the flower that grew from the concrete, to be *me*.

The Winterlyn she adored so dearly.

So, I made a new resolve.

For now, stop worrying about Father and his quirks.

My focus pivoted to Mom - and I wanted to fulfill a bucket list summoned out of thin air of fun things just *us* could enjoy, nothing coming in between.

*Stay back, lupus. You aren't going to tucker my mom out as quickly as you think,* I declared silently.

As winter rolled into springtime and the temperatures warmed, Mom's lupus flares died down, snuffed out by the mild weather and the lazy haze in the air.

The amount of rashes on her body went from twenty to just three; she could walk with more precision and accuracy, no longer so wobbly on her feet, and she could eat any type of food she desired without being in the Land of Excruciating Pain.

Which meant that I could get the jump on my plan.

"Hey, mom?" I called out to her when she was cooking waffles for breakfast on a late, warm March morning.

"Yes, honey?"

"Do you want to... hang out with me more? Just the two of us?"

I looked down at my toes, feeling just the slightest hint of sheepish feelings well in me.

*Hopefully mom doesn't think this is a weird thing of me to ask...*

"Oh, Winterlyn! I'd *love* that!" Mom exclaimed, happily sweeping me into my arms and almost knocking the waffle maker into the toaster. "What do you want to do?"

By what I wanted to do, it was what *we* both wanted to do. Every matter heard, every plan enacted.

The neverending bucket list of mother-daughter fun had *begun*.

Roll the tape!

Together, Mom and I went to secluded, yet open grassy flatlands or hills in Pineshadow, where we'd flatten a blue-checkered picnic blanket (totally not from Tuesday Morning) on the grass and munch on raspberry jelly sandwiches, the jam sticking to our lips.

"I love this raspberry jelly, mom."

"The trip to Haggen for that is so *worth it*, love."

We picnicked at the park, at other parks, and when Father was out of the house, even in our own living room. The sandwiches accumulated, and so did the glasses of juice, fruit bowls, and even the occassional fruit or veggie kebab.

One mission accomplished, *numerous tasks to go*!

Step outside

Don't look back 'cause we don't need to justify our crimes

Another day in April, Mom drove me out to a natural forested area near Old Town, preserved over centuries at the behest of the elders, and we sat on a bench; Mom had a guidebook on her lap.

A guidebook to *avians*.

"When I was in my youth, I took birdwatching as a major hobby of mine," she explained. "Birds love this part of Pineshadow, though they also love the Piney Woods."

Who are you to say it's wrong to live my life?

"Can't go in there. Dad," I muttered.

"Yep, but I *can* take you here." *Bzzz. Bzzz*.

I craned my head, searching high, up, and low for that sound. Was it a bug?

I won't hesitate

Oh, I won't bend or break, no

"What's that?" I questioned, and Mom, sshing me, pointed to a patch of firebush in the distance, and around it was a tiny bird.

Tiny, yet *formidable*, its wings fiercely flapping so fast it looked *wingless*. It darted around the flowers, its shimmering white, green, and red feathers catching my eyes and causing me to dive headfirst into a trance.

"Wow!" I gasped, stunned. That bird was *beautiful*.

So small, but so *special*.

We (we!) won't (won't!)

Know if we don't try

"That's a female rufous hummingbird, Winterlyn. A very common specimen in Pineshadow."

Common? I'd pay twenty dollars, snatched from Father's wallet, to encounter a hummingbird again. Hummingbirds were fast. Hummingbirds were nimble. Hummingbirds were *graceful*.

Hummingbirds were *shining treasures*, *adorable*, and most *definitely* sacred.

I watched it as it flitted off to another patch of flowers. We walked through a trail in the copse-sized forest, and Mom pointed me to other bird species in the area.

If we don't try

The spotted feathers of the northern flicker, the greenish tint of the common starling, the dark heads of the dark-eyed junco, the pudgy body of the black-capped chickadee, and many, *many* fellow bird friends who I could hold in the palm of my hand.

But none of them would ever dazzle me like the *hummingbird*. They filled me with a renowned, mysterious, *lustrious* feeling.

A feeling to recognize later, when time willed it.

When Mom and I were together, we'd race to the mall for our own shopping trips, peering into the Francesca's store and studying all the random collectibles and clothing for sale.

"A hat with feathers from the Tulalip? That's a charming way to pay tribute to those who settled the lands before us!" Mom noted, tracing the feathers with her fingers.

I studied several jar glasses and two-inch tall glasses and walls of glimmering jewelry and knicknacks, seeing my face distort in the reflections, and I giggled.

If we don't try

We also raided Barnes & Noble, cruising around the music section for a bruising, then stealing lattes from the Starbucks on the first floor.

Mom trudged through the magazines, digging out her favorite copies on gardening, while I took to one that were associated with National Geographic. You could never go wrong educating yourself on the animal and plant wonders of the world!

We danced around the fountain and center court of the mall, leaves getting stuck in our hair.

On lively mornings, Mom would make my favorite breakfast, and then we'd split it, marveling at the cooking and savoring every last moment.

When the nights were cool and no cloud to be seen in the sky, we'd sit outside on the sidewalk, staring up at the blues and blacks, and we'd count as many stars as we could until our voices were hoarse.

We are here to do more than to just survive

We are here to do more than to just survive

We are here to do more than to just survive

Until we relaxed, nestled close and personal, and the only thing that could show in the colors of our eyes was the stars.

And every single constellation Mom and I's hands would trace.

With every touch, we came alive. With every touch, the stars came alive.

"Don't you just love the stars?" I inquired.

"They're everything to me, but not as *everything* as you," Mom whispered, granting me a saffron-soft kiss to the side of my cheek.

Some nights we weren't alone on stargazing trips, and Father would join, lost in his little wonderland.

When will you realize?

As I sat there, gazing up at the stars, the concept of death leaked back into my mind, and I felt my hand brush Mom's.

Someday, Mom - and Father - would not be here. They'd pass on when their bodies had worn themselves out of service and would ascend up into the heavens, traverse the fluffy, golden clouds, and lighten the night sky by transforming into the coruscating stars and constellations that parted the darkness.

But Mom was battling with her lupus and *winning*. She was *strong*. She was a *warrior*, and she would never surrender to lupus without sacrificing her *entire life*.

I prayed, looking up the stars, prayed that Mom would have plenty more years ahead of her. That lupus would diminish, not overcome. That Mom would continue to illuminate the house with her glow, to be the reason in Father, to be the mother I deserved.

I hoped the animal deities and Varien were listening. I *hoped*.

Mid-spring, Mom took me to the mall again for another mom-daughter shopping trip, and with no Father to wind me like a spring wrung around his fingernail, I freely commented on the clothing that was too large for me, too *edgy*, too undignified.

"Love those jeans with the rips!"

"That blazer looks *awesome*!"

"The roses on that jacket look so *real*!"

Mom laughed, my free spirit coming as such a moment of *joy* for her. Of a child enjoying her childhood. I wonder how alike we were in our youths?

We were just about to peer in Skechers when I studied the clothing in the window at Hot Topic for the millionth time.

More gothy clothing. More intrigue. I pressed my nose to the case.

"You look like a manatee doing that, Winterlyn," Mom teased.

"What's a manatee?" I asked, my nosebridge scrunched from the chill glass.

"A type of sea animal."

"Oh, cool!"

I peeled my nose away from the window, knowing that Hot Topic was *still* off limits. Father would be *irate* if I broke his Unwritten Holy Book Rule Number Whatever.

It wasn't worth it...

"Do you want to go in?"

*Record scratch*.

"*What*?" I demanded, doing a double take.

"Do you want to go into Hot Topic, Winterlyn?"

My jaw unhinged from my mouth in *shock*. My mother had just offered me a *chance* to go into Hot Topic, for the first time in *my life*.

*Stand in there* with the emo people.

Explore what *hadn't been grasped* by my curious, nature-worn hands.

Waste no time

Stop letting worry hold you back

I grabbed onto that life preserver.

This was an offer I would *never* say no to.

"**YES**!" I screamed, dragging Mom inside, herding the horse to the water it had been prohibited from drinking before.

Inside was a *cave*, cramped, but stacked full of *bomb ass merchandise*. Red brick walls, spanning to the black ceiling, TVs playing rock bands that I was unfamiliar with, emo cashiers with heavy, smeared black makeup.

It smelled like rust. Chef's kiss, this place captured the vibe of Hot Topic on the exterior.

On the walls were the Items of the Forsaken. What Father thought to be canned *sin*.

Start asking "why would I waste another day while life just passes by?"

The chokers, the belt chains, the emo rock band and heavy metal and anime t-shirts, oversized pullovers, gummy snacks, pride pins...

Oh, I was *overwhelmed*.

Oh, this could have given me *claustrophobia*.

*I did not give several flying foxes*.

I laid my fingers on every item, every article of clothing, poking myself with the ends of the pride pins (sobbing), and feeling the ends of the chokers and belt chains, noting to myself that even if Mom let me get one, if she was going to be that lenient, Father would double-wham me on my chin.

I won't hesitate

Oh, I won't bend or break, no

"And Edwin said this store was too *emo* for you!" Mom shouted through the screaming rock music. "You click *perfectly*, Winterlyn!"

She smiled, genuine, displaying no intentions of fishing me back out.

I romped around some more, circling (or squaring) the peremeter of the store before without warning, I observed that there was a clear glass case planted into the wall.

"Hmm?" Turning, I studied it, and my mouth parted again in *awe*.

In the case was a cream head mannequin, bordered by jars of lavender and cinnamon incense and silver rings and necklaces, around the neck a thin, black string - a necklace. At the bottom of the necklace was a pure white *crystal*. It looked like a *diamond*.

But that couldn't be a diamond! Diamonds were *expensive as hell*. How could a chain like Hot Topic afford such rarities?

The set was tagged with the name *Cold & Incensed* - fitting with the pungent incense.

Additional text on the bottom sign revealed to me that this was a collaboration between Hot Topic and Earthbound Trading Company - a store which, at the time, was not present at the mall.

We (we!) won't (won't!)

Know if we don't try

Mom joined me, scratching her chin at the jewelry and necklace. "If you told me Earthbound and Hot Topic would have a partnership, I would have vehemently refuted it! Doesn't make sense. One company's emo, the other's a trading company..."

Hey, Mom! This *does* work. The incense, the jewelry, and the necklace... the combination was *strange*.

Strange, but *functional*.

I could work with this.

"It makes sense to me!" I retorted calmly, tapping on my case. I stared at the necklace, beginning to yearn for it hung around my neck, that white diamond *exquisite*.

It was so simple, but simple's what I *liked*. Nothing too flashy, nothing too attention-seeking.

Nothing Father would lob a complaint about.

If we don't try

I searched for the price tag, finding it on the side of the case.

*The necklace was a whopping two hundred dollars*.

*WHAT? You've GOTTA be kidding me!!* I hollered inside my head.

The *one time* I go into Hot Topic, the *one time* I'm on the *cusp* of buying something I can own, the *one time* I felt my esteem rising...

...the price tag tied me back down to reality.

*It was way out of our budget*.

"Eh, I can do without this. Two hundred dollars? We can afford better things," I dismissively told Mom, heading for the outside.

If we don't try

"I'm not opposed to buying the necklace, Winterlyn."

*Record scratch two*.

I stopped, whipping around to face Mom, who pulled her own wallet out of her pocket, a smirk on her face.

"But mom! Dad doesn't like it when we overspend on our budget! He'll be *furious*!" I protested.

The necklace wasn't worth it. I kept telling myself that. Why was Mom about to make her bank account cry? I didn't *understand*.

Mom leaned down, whispering into my ear, "Your mommy just got payday recently. Plus... Edwin isn't allowed to interfere in our mother-daughter days. Why not indulge in a little *insurgence*, Winterlyn?"

We are here to do more than to just survive

We are here to do more than to just survive

We are here to do more than to just survive

Lightning struck in me, bright, kickstarting the embers in me. My eyes lit up, radiant ice-blue once more. My hands itched with anticipation.

I grinned from left ear to right ear.

I was *ecstatic*.

I was up to touch the clouds *again*.

Mom was going to buy the *necklace*. I'd finally own something from Hot Topic! The most expensive item in the *whole store*! I could flaunt it whenever I *wanted*!

I was *free*.

I was *uncaged*.

I had grasped the ropes leading me to *validation*.

"**I WANT IT**!" I yelled enthusiastcally.

When will you realize?

And when Mom put the bag in my hands when we got into the car, I pulled out the necklace, feeling its black string and twining it around my fingers.

Then I graced the white diamond. It was cold, carrying the faintest traces of cinnamon.

Cold. Incensed.

I had *accomplished* something.

*Mom* had *assisted me* in accomplishing something.

Owning my first item from Hot Topic: my beloved necklace.

I wore it every single day, tied around my neck, and when I looked at the mirror, I saw a gemstone that slid right in with my outward appearance.

Mom was *right*. Hot Topic *was* for me.

Who said it was *unholy* to embrace a darker mystique?

Who said it was *illegal* to try some more mature things?

With Mom, she *understood*. She saw the person I sought to be, and lifted me up, up, and into the lands Father had chain-linked-fenced away from me.

The feeling of this *success* was brand new, invigorating, bubbling in me like a fizzy soda.

Was it vindication?

No, something more than vindication.

It was a feeling that overtook my whole heart.

The passion, confidence... yes.

It was the feeling of being *alive*.

From April bounced May, bringing the rain and soggy days where I couldn't freely explore my exterior surroundings and I'd miserably stare out the window, the rain pitter-pattering softly off the windows and roof.

Ugh. I hated the rain. It made my hair plaster to my skin, and it was yucky to peel it off. The only time I wanted to soak in water was when I was taking my baths, solitude to myself, relaxing in my suds.

Mother Nature's rain was a hard *pass*. It disrupted my missions to indulge in nature - and to be with Mom.

An upside to that, however, was that we could spend time together in the heated indoors, binging a movie or TV show on the sofa.

*Sweeeet* victory.

After Mother Nature had repealed her rains from the earth, disarming her cloud army and reinstating the flaming yellow ball of sun, I ventured outside and sat down by Mom's garden, studying the plants she was cultivating in her pots and tilled patches of soil.

Chives. Sage. Lemongrass. Basil. Delectable scents were inhaled, and sighing, I'd shift over to her vegetable patch, holding the ripening tomatoes, red with faint patches of green, poking the stems that held peas, snug in their pods, and patting the stalks of still-developing rhubarb.

It wasn't a flabbergast moment for Mom when she found me lounging in her garden, and chuckling, she trotted up to me with her watering can.

"I see someone's invested in my garden," she commented aloud, amusement curved into her lips.

I blushed. "Your plants are great, mom! Can I help you grow them?" Sitting up, I faced her expectantly.

I *loved* her garden. She used her own creations in her cooking (which, mind you, tasted *phenomenal*), was always tender to her plants, and knew *when* to cultivate them, *when* to harvest them, *when* to cook them.

Mom was a *professional* at her gardening... and I wanted to become a gardening pro like she was.

Like mother, like daughter.

A task at hand on the invisible bucket list curled in my palm.

"Sure! That's so sweet of you, Winterlyn!" Mom replied, ruffling the shaved side of my head. "I'll teach you what you need to know, and then we can get started, alright?"

Mom was an *unlimited* knowledge tap. She taught me how to irrigate and when to water, when to plant, when to harvest and how to harvest, and how to repel the insects that ate through the leaves.

She taught me how to grow *spices*, like vanillas, how to pick nutmeg seeds off the nutmeg tree. Mom showed me how to perfect the art of producing herbs, and I remember twirling around the garden's stone steps the afternoon I clutched my first, bundled up pile of basil in my hands.

I was a *gardener*.

I was Mom's *helper*.

You sure as freaking hell can bet that I whammed that basil in Father's face (he sneezed afterward, but I removed the basil in time).

Rimming the garden were a bunch of Pacific bleeding hearts aimed downwards, drooping as if they had just signed their last will and had committed to dying, the edges frayed.

"Mom, what are the bleeding hearts in the garden?" I questioned her once, and she sighed warmly, shutting her eyes in peace, a sunhat's rim drooping like the flowers near her nose.

"They're my *favorite* flower. I keep them around to remind me of my love of nature." She walked over to one and gingerly smoothed its petals.

"Awww," I quietly murmured to myself. *That* was why there was one in the kitchen!

Mom *loved* these flowers.

And clasping one's petals in my hand, the petals dove-feather smooth, Mom's worldview seeped into me.

Nature was a *blessing*, represented to the human in individual ways.

Would I have a favorite flower like Mom? Or favorite nature hobby that wasn't gardening?

I had a *lot* of growing to do.

"Do you have your own favorite, Winterlyn?" Mom asked, plopping down beside me and interrupting my train of thought.

Train careening into the black abyss, I shook my head. "No, not yet. But I love the bleeding hearts."

"I had a feeling you would..."

Sometimes, I'd play in the yard when Milbert's tortoiseshells and anise swallowtails visited the garden to pollenate the bleeding hearts, their wings catching the sunlight and dazzling in oranges and whites and blacks, causing my eyes to stretch wide.

The tiniest of insects could be so visually *pleasing*.

Dragonflies were another treat; they were moving *disco balls* zipping around the yard, their wings composed of sunlit glitter and jewels of pink, blue, and green.

They whizzed by my head, their buzz reverberating in my ears, a calm *bzzz*.

The awe of the world, the wonders.

So much was left untapped.

Sometimes, the insects I'd encounter in the yard were *not friendly*.

Vividly, I recall one instance where I was with Mom outside, tending to the sage patch near a bleeding heart, and I put my hands down to tend to the frangible sage leaves.

A yellow-and-black *thing* stormed across my field of vision, buzzing furiously, and then, before I could react, it landed on my head.

I froze.

*Sting*.

Yelping, I collapsed onto the grass, writhing, the top of my forehead stung and *burned*. Tears lurched from my eyelids and splashed onto the grass stalks, becoming their new morning dew.

Mom, alarmed, sped to my side in an instant.

"*Winterlyn*! Oh, baby, what *happened*??"

Looking up at her feebly, I winced, gripping her knee.

"A... a bug s-stung me! It *hurts*!"

Mom turned to stare at the top of the fence, catching sight of a yellow-and-black thing buzzing off, and worriedly, she returned her stare to me.

"Oh, baby... you got stung by a yellowjacket. You accidentally provoked it," she clarified, stroking my cheek and wiping away the pain-triggered tears.

"It hurts, mom!" I whined again, staggering to my knees and hugging her, and she hugged back, raising me up to my feet.

"It's okay, Winterlyn. It's gone now. Let me look at your forehead." I ducked down, giving Mom the room necessary, and retrieving a set of tweezers from her gardening apron, she plucked the stinger clean out. I squeaked.

"Stinger's out. Come on, let's get you inside."

She rushed me inside, closing the screen door and then promptly shouting for Father, who slunk into the kitchen.

"Lorelei? There better be a good reason for disrupting-"

"The sun's *still gonna shine* in Philadelphia, Edwin! Winterlyn got stung by a yellowjacket and needs the first aid basket."

Father immediately dropped his immeasurable disappointment and snatched the basket from the top of the fridge. I sat down on the nearest available chair, eyes half-closed from the pain, my heart having fallen halfway down my body and gone crooked from the pesky, villainous yellowjacket.

Mom, engaging her deft, garden-and-lupus-worn hands, cleaned off the sting area, now a swollen, elevated bump, with antiseptic and water, then cleansed it again in meat tenderizer (which doesn't just make your meat good, it also treats stings!).

Lastly, she put an ice pack on my head, and the bitter, freezing potency of the ice cubes nullified the pain.

"There you go, love. All fixed." She gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Wanna come back outside?"

I shook my head. That yellowjacket could sneak right back in the yard and come back for round two. He could bring his friends. He could sting me in my eye and *blind me*.

The buzzing, the yellow and black striping, the daunting stinger...

I shook my head frantically. "I want to stay here!!!"

"Okay. I'll see you in an hour or two." Mom went back outside, the screen door sliding closed. I went to the living room and flopped down on the sofa next to Father.

"How did you get stung?" he asked.

"It came out of nowhere when I touched the sage," I said, planting my face into a pillow.

*Hey,* I told myself. *It was a yellowjacket, not killer bees.*

My mangled, sting-swollen corpse would have been the thing Mom was hugging instead if it were killer bees, if they were as violent as people claimed.

Eeeegh.

From then on, I was very apprehensive over going into the garden, fearing that there would be another yellowjacket to sting me, or another similar looking bug I'd confuse for one.

I'd glance out, seeing Mom work without me, sending a spike through my heart. I *wanted* to be out there, hugging and appreciating nature for what it was, coexisting in harmony with the animals.

My fear of the insects restrained me.

Nature's animals could be so *beautiful*... but also so *aggrivated* and *vicious*.

They could hold vendettas. Feel pain. Feel anger. Feel the emotions humans felt.

Did they *want* me out there?

Mom, upon noticing that I was going into the garden less, talked to me while she sorted the bookshelf.

"It was just one yellowjacket, Winterlyn. That bugger shouldn't deter you from staying in the garden! Nature is beautiful and unpredictable, but that's part of the charm. And if you get attacked again, I *won't* let you suffer for too long. I'm going to be there to protect you."

"B-But mom... I'm *scared* that a yellowjacket's going to sting me again! Or a wasp! What if I can't tell the difference between a yellowjacket and dragonfly? What if I f-freak out?"

"Hmm..." Mom started walking, humming to herself, and I trailed her as she headed into the kitchen, to the screen door.

"Mom?" I anxiously prompted her.

"You have *nothing* to fear being in the garden. No insects, no plant. Trust me, Winterlyn, I was just as *frightened* by insects when I was your age! I overcame my fears, though, and came to see that not all insects were malicious in nature..."

She opened the screen door, beckoning for me to follow. I hesitated for a split second before reluctantly stepping outside, the sun hitting my head.

Mom kneeled down next to a patch of bleeding hearts.

"Come on, Winterlyn!"

I hurried my pace and sat down.

"Now, ssh... just watch what I do."

I was puzzled, tucking my head in my knees.

What did my fear of insects and the outside have to do with Mom's favorite flowers?

She gently pressed down on a bleeding heart with her left hand, holding out her palm under it, and *there*, I saw *it*.

A pudgy, fuzzy yellow-and-black striped creature.

A *honeybee*.

Resisting my urge to scream and flee to Spokane, I covered my mouth with my hands, squealing.

"Relax, Winterlyn. Honeybees are friendlier than you think they are," Mom stated, her voice somehow contentful, and shaking, I brought my hands to my lap.

The honeybee tottered around on the bleeding heart for a few more steps before, to my *incredulous*, trepid ass, stepping on Mom's open palm.

*It's going to sting her. It's going to sting her. Oh god-*

Instead, the bee buzzed happily, resting on her palm, and she held it in front of me.

"See? You have *nothing* to be afraid of!" she reassured, gazing down at her tiny friend. "Honeybees can get along just fine with humans as long as humans are kind to them in return."

Hammering home her point, she proceeded to gently pet the bee's back, and it didn't sting nor attack. It just *relaxed*.

I was appalled.

I thought creatures like bees *despised* us! Wanted to *sting us* each time we stumbled upon them!

Were my fears irrational, or was I valid to avoid?

"Do you want to become the bee's friend?" Mom offered, moving her palm closer to mine. "Don't panic, darling. It *won't* attack you. It's's very friendly."

A part of me was stuck, breathing intensely, that lingering sinking feeling telling me the bee would perceive me as a foe and sting me.

But Mom *never* lied to me. If Mom was lying, that bee would have *stung* her.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was *okay* to go a bit out of my comfort zone...

"Okay," I agreed, extending out my hand, and Mom formed a bridge with hers. The bee, seeing a new hand to rest on, crawled over to it.

Its legs tickled my skin, and it took my nerve to keep me from flailing and screeching.

It buzzed, but in no way was it hostile.

It was a *friend*.

I smiled, my fears evaporating, and the curtains shielding me from the outside world were permanently drawn back.

My fears *were* irrational. One sting *wasn't* going to change that.

I shouldn't have feared nature, not when I could tame its animals and learn allies from enemies.

Copying Mom, I pet the bee on its back, and it buzzed a high-pitch squeal of happiness, doing a little jig on my palm before flying off to a nearby bleeding heart and pollenating it.

"Oh my lord... I can't believe I just did that!" I whisper-exclaimed to Mom, who nodded.

"See? Nature is your *friend*, Winterlyn! The bee *likes* you."

"How are you *so magical* at this, mom?"

"I guess I'm just a *natural*!" Laughing, Mom scooped me up into a hug, and nature sung in full spring form around us.

Spring lasted for months before it was shoved over to summer, temperatures at their highest, greenery in full bloom, the pools in their peak-season for exuberant swimming.

Temperatures at their highest? Understatement much. It was *hot as hell*.

The air conditioning was turned up to max cold, and I was lathered in sunscreen each and every time I went outside. Remember, kids, don't get sunburned. Always apply your sunscreen (and your bug spray)!

Mom made me and Father pitchers worth of peach tea, and as a treat between me and her, we'd go to Häagen-Dazs at the mall and get ourselves scoops of ice cream. I got vanilla while Mom got the vibrant caramel cone.

Can we go, if I can go?

Just don't tell me where the river goes

We'd split more of our favorite flavors, strawberry to mint chocolate to rocky road and cookies and cream and chocolate, sitting by the one sunspot in the window, which warmed our backs, and discuss the happenings in Pineshadow, the future of the Pineshadow Outdoor Mall, school, funny incidents, and the things sitting on top, down low, and far between.

Now that I had received my summer emancipation from school, it was time for us McCormicks to mull over plans for the summer. We hadn't thought of anything yet.

And even if we never get home

It's okay that was the danger zone

"You know, Winterlyn..." Mom murmured to me on a hot afternoon as I spooned mango ice cream into my mouth.

"I was debating asking your dad if he'd consider driving back to Heartbeat Point."

*My heart stopped*.

*Heartbeat Point* was a name I had not heard in what seemed like *eons*.

My earlobes *roared* with the *crashing* waves of the beach, the grainy, soft, warm sand at the beach, the grill where I had my first sushi...

...the first *rhythm* my heart followed.

You put your name on my pencil case

Telling me you're ready for love

*Follow the rhythm*.

Heartbeat Point. Where the heart beats to the drums, where the heart *runs* toward what it wants most.

The dream of *life*.

These young mistakes are telling me

Maybe we're connecting the dots

I hadn't been to Heartbeat Point since I was *five*. I was *nine* now.

To hear the roars of the waves, the squelch of wet sand, freshly-prepared sushi, the days and nights facing the sea and immersing myself in that *mythical rhythm*, was something I'd sacrifice my arms and limbs *for*.

"I'd *love* to go back!" I delightedly exclaimed, mango ice cream drool dripping off my lip, and Mom cleared it off with her napkin.

Don't you know? Years ago

Why'd you tell me all good things come slow?

What did Heartbeat Point look like after all these years? Was it still the same? Or did a damn industrial development ruin its pulsating charm?

Ew. I hate thinking those thoughts.

"Alright, I'll tell your father soon." Mom's gaze lingered on my head, hatless (screw that straw creature), her blue eyes scanning the shaved side.

"You look so pretty with your hairstyle, Winterlyn. I genuinely loved helping you with that."

And even if I'm letting it show

It's too late, I have to let you know

I *blushed* at Mom's compliment. *Mom*. She loved me *infinitely*. She'd do *anything* for me, things Father was too cowardly or too mulish to do.

She *knew* I was a tomboy.

She *took me* to *Hot Topic*, the most emo of stores around Pineshadow.

She *loved* my rebellious, outside-the-lines look. Mom was *proud*.

I shed happy tears and ate more of my mango ice cream.

You put your name on my pencil case

Telling me you're ready for love

Afterwards, we drove out to Tuesday Morning - which was a guaranteed occurance once or twice a month - so Mom could get some supplies for the garden.

Pineshadow's store was small - it had gray stone floors with marble-gray walls and shelves stocked full of off-price home goods. *Here today, gone tomorrow*, a board hanging from the ceiling would advertise.

These young mistakes are telling me

Maybe we're connecting the dots

We strolled through the garden section. Mom picked up a sturdy pair of pliers, requiring them since the other pair broke days prior, and also snagged the last bag of birdseed in the isle (there's a birdfeeder near the screen door, but you could also call it a squirrelfeeder).

"Is that what you need?" I asked.

"Almost. Just *one* more thing..."

Mom pushed her cart to the front of the store, where patio and interior furniture lay in front of a display for all to analyze. She strutted towards a birdbath, white marble with flower etchings at the basin, and lifted it onto the bottom of the cart.

"A *birdbath*?"

"Might draw mosquitos, but I want my avian friends to know that they're fully welcome in my garden."

*Aww*. Mom *loved* her birds. I did too.

We passed through several other isles, Mom checking her list to make sure she had everything, and while in the arts and crafts isle, I came across this brown box.

It had a *latch*, made of some dark wood, and it looked plain and empty.

Here we go, if I can go

Just don't tell me where the river goes

"Not sure what this box is doing here," I said. Mom saw it, and then, *fwoosh* - it went straight into the cart.

*Huh?*

"Oh! Thanks for catching that, Winterlyn! I actually need that for a project of mine."

*A project?* I wondered, my eyes presumably alight with questioning and intrigue.

And even if we never get home

It's okay that was the danger zone

"What project, mom?" I questioned, my knees jiggling with the wanting to know of such a project.

"Uh-uh! It's a secret," Mom whispered, putting a finger to her lips, and I knew I wouldn't be fishing that one out from the pond.

If Mom was keeping a secret project a secret, it had to be something with just as much power as the Milky Way.

I didn't pry, instead wondering *what* she was planning.

The box was very ordinary and likely used for small-item storage. Was it an art project? Was it a gift for Father? I had yet to know.

But no matter what shenanigans Mom got up into, they were bound to be *amazing*.

Once Mom completed her purchases at the checkout and loaded her items into the car, we drove home, the sky clear blue tinted with pink from the impending sunset.

You put your name on my pencil case

Telling me you're ready for love

Along the way, sleep bogged down my eyelids, and I passed out for the rest of the way home, coming to be awoken by Mom.

"You were drooling like a baby," she stated teasingly.

"Eeh... g*uess* I w-was," I mumbled, the naptime talons gripping my head.

Shaking my head and pawing out the crust from my eyes, I helped Mom unpack her merchandise and placed it in the hall adjacent to the living room.

These young mistakes are telling me

Maybe we're connecting the dots

"Dad! We're home-" I greeted before abruptly cutting myself off, my eyes darting across the living room.

Usually Father was here watching some sportscast, but he was nowhere to be found this time.

Peculiar...

Mom, realizing that her husband had poofed, called out for him, but there was no response.

I tensed up. *Oh god*. A nightmare scenario could have happened while we were out, and Father would have been alone and vulnerable. Robbers, kidnappings. I've heard the stories. They were fears crammed to the bottom of my stomach.

They resurfaced, and I clung to Mom's blouse, fearing the *worst*.

"Edwin? *Edwin*?" Mom yelled, heading to the bedroom she and Father shared, and to our *relief*, we heard his voice.

He was talking. Not to himself, but over the phone.

"Sssh. Let's give him a moment to finish up his call," Mom instructed.

"Barry, when was the last time she drank or ate? Is she speaking coherently?"

Father was talking to Uncle Barry about a *she*. Who? Steph? Fanny? Aunt Jodie?

"No? Has her mind been failing more?"

Mind failing... that ruled out my cousins *and* Aunt Jodie.

It dawned on me, and I looked up at Mom, who also had the answer.

"Okay, Barry, I'll think about this. My relations with mom are strained, but I need to talk with Lorelei and Winterlyn before I take action. Love you always."

*Grandma Anny*. My religious grandmother who made up stories about her connection to God and yelled at a harmless child if they used the Lord's name in vain for one second.

Her health was failing, so was her mind, and it appeared to be dire straits. People grow weaker as they age... it made me shudder thinking about *that* again.

Mom pushed open the door, and solemnly, Father looked up at her.

"I can't believe this is happening," he muttered in a low, dark tone.

"How bad is Anny's health, honey?" Mom inquired, a hand rubbing his cheek.

"She's in the hospital right now. Barry told me she's stopped eating and drinking."

The chill in my spine became all of Antarctica. *Oh god this is happening*.

Grandma Anny had stopped eating and drinking, and I knew so damn well that this was a sign that her time was *near*.

*Death*.

"I know she's going to pass on and join the heavens soon," Father added, voice barely unwavering. "I... I hadn't prepared for this-"

Neither had I, Father, and I took a step up to him, my hands fraying from the melancholy.

Father saw me, just seeing how young I was having to hear of a potential death of a family member. I did remember Steph informing me of Grandpa Darrell's passing of cancer when I was younger, but now I had an expanded memory.

I could remember a family member's death.

"Oh, Winterlyn... your grandma is very old, don't fret. Her time's been coming for years... she grew distant after the family reunion. Cut much of us out except for your uncle, Barry."

"She doesn't like us anymore?" I asked, not *that* in disbelief. Grandma Anny did have a knack for being insanity around religion, and Father could vouch for that repeatedly.

Father nodded, placing his hands on mine. "Even though I do not have the best relationship with your grandma, she's still the woman *who raised me*. Who convinced me to open up and speak to people like your *incredible mother*. She can hide it, but in the pits of her heart is affection. She *does* love me, and Lorelei, and *you*."

Mom planted a kiss on Father's cheek, her tiny nods the indicator that she agreed.

"I'm going to be temporarily living in Leavenworth - mom's hospital is there - with Barry as mom approaches her final days on earth. It will be agonizing, and grueling, and... I might have to adapt to a brighter environment when I come back for you two lovely ladies. But I want to see mom in her last moments and make sure Barry and his kids are okay."

"Fanny's the more sensitive one, if I have that right?" Mom interjected.

"Yeah, she still is... she still believes it's her birth that caused Sheila to divorce Barry... I'll be there for her."

*Fanny...* I stiffened, almost shedding tears at the thought of Fanny having to hear of her grandmother's death when she already *blamed herself* for something that wasn't even her fault.

I didn't know Sheila, but she was free to screw off for Fanny's mere existence pushing her over the edge.

That aside, Father was going away indefinitely, and my heart ached. I may have had conflict with him, and we'd fought over Judaism and our separate beliefs, but he was going through one of the worst things a human can experience: death.

Death of a *loved one*.

I couldn't imagine losing someone the way Father was on the verge of losing Grandma Anny.

Doing what any daughter would have done, I tightly hugged Father, and so did Mom.

"Stay out in Leavenworth for as long as you need, dear. I'll be taking care of Winterlyn, and you can keep in touch. Send us texts. And you can tell Winterlyn's cousins that they have my support," Mom encouraged.

Seconding Mom, I chimed in, stating, "I love you, dad. Tell Fanny that while I can't travel up to see her, Brody, and Steph, I wanted to give them a hug and love them very much."

"Thanks, girls," Father uttered, and the embrace was prolonged to let the love and light shine through.

We all silently vowed to ourselves to pray for Grandma Anny, so she could die peacefully, reunite with Grandpa Darrell up in heaven, and to bless the other holy stuff.

Instead of praying to Yahweh, I prayed to the animal gods to accompany Grandma when she ascended up the heaven staircase.

*Ignore her crazed side and give her your light,* I requested.

The weeks passed while Father was off in Leavenworth, leaving me to spend my days with Mom. Frequently, I worried for Father, and the more I thought, the more the worry tore deeper into my flesh. The more the blade sunk in. The more the pain welled.

Father was well acquainted with death, having dealt with the passing of Grandpa Darrell to cancer when I was four. I never got to meet my grandpa, and I never got to know his personality. Was he fiery, like Father, or more level, like Mom? Did I inherit anything from him? Did he love me so? Now, Father was going to lose *his mother*; it was *inevitable*. He'd be orphaned, and so would Uncle Barry, Aunt Jodie, and the estranged Uncle Lewis. Losing both parents...

It was a cannonball impacting the *ocean* in my head, one that made my eyes dilate, made my nerves pause, made my hairs stand on end.

I thought of what would happen if I *lost* my parents *forever*. I'd be an orphan, parentless, with nowhere to run, trapped in blackness. Darkness swarming in all sides, snaking up my arms and legs. My heart, destroyed and ashen. The feeling of fault with the world, of turning your back to it. Having no one to love, or cling onto.

The feel of being forever *alone*.

Losing everything I *knew*. Everything I *had*. I would be a shell of the young girl I was once was.

It was with these horrific, stomach-churning thoughts that I had another Winterlyn epiphany that made me sit down, stop, and think.

Father was *losing* someone he loved *again*. He had to bear witness to a dead body of his parent. His *other* parent. He'd already seen a dead body before. My heart went off, tick, tick, *tick*.

He was going to see someone's health crash, burn, and rot. He'd already seen a crash, burn, and rot before. My heart tightened, and my breathing became ragged.

Father was stressed. He was going to witness Grandma Anny's last, shallow breaths before she passed on, her body cold, her spirit ascending to heaven. He'd already witnessed Grandpa Darrell's last, shallow breaths before he passed on, body cold, spirit entwined with the stars. Breathing was intense, heart *zipping* until I thought *Alien* was happening to me in real life.

Father was going through one of the *ugliest* aspects of life: *death*. I had my nitpicks with Father, disagreeing with his religious-preaching ways and wishing he'd understand me the way Mom did. But I *loved him*, too, and I just wanted him to come home smiling. To be the honest, lovable, no-nonsense Father that made Father Father. I didn't want to see death haunt him for the rest of his life.

I wanted the *real Father*, not a human who passed as a nebulous corpse.

Mom urged me to not worry about him, to believe in his *strengths* - his love of the family, love of me, and yearning for us all to be successful and prideful - and I couldn't doubt that. Father *did* have strength, a flaming-hot temper that he passed on to me, and the *resolve* to succeed and never let anyone he loved down.

Still, I *also* worried about my other grandparents, Grandma Krystine and Grandpa Pierre, who had gotten older and more frail. Mom hadn't told me much about them recently.

Were they okay? Oh, I hoped they were okay, because I didn't want to see Mom's elegant, passionate face broken with sorrow, and mostly certainly not turned into a nebulous corpse, lifeless without a spark in her eyes.

"Mom, how are grandma and grandpa doing?" I asked, laying beside her on the sofa.

"They're doing okay and staying fit. If anything happens to them, Willie will tell me."

"Willie doesn't live in Texas anymore?"

"Ah, he still does. But your grandparents don't have great wifi, and their signal only hooks up to Willie's phone, not mine. Someday, I'll remind them to talk to their provider..."

"Oh."

"Your grandparents are in good shape right now, Winterlyn, so don't worry about that or your father. Plus, they're in assisted living, so they have additional care in case of an emergency."

I sighed in relief, knowing that Grandma Krystine and Grandpa Pierre were safe, double safe, and triple safe and were spending their time in assisted living, likely living out their rest of the days there, and from the way they were healthy, they had many years ahead of them.

I hoped to see them again just as I hoped to see Father when he returned.

While doing household chores and tending to the garden and going out, we awaited news from Father, texts on Grandma Anny's health, *anything*. It was mere radio silence initially, driving my worries for Father, and sometimes it was difficult for Mom to keep a straight face. I couldn't blame her, for she faced so many hardships before and after marrying Father. Sickness, sickness, *sickness*.

We just had to live life as it was, as normally as we could, bracing for what was imminent. We had to stay *united*.

No McCormick was left behind, and no McCormick shyed away.

On the nights before I went to bed, I'd rant about my concerns to Mom, and we'd huddle together under my bedspread. She'd soothe me, hold me close, whispering that she loved me and would do anything for me. She loved me for who I was, accepted me, and even if the family experienced death, she wouldn't let us break apart.

Her touch was the plushness of down feathers, and her eyes were cerulean, but reflected the calm lappings of ocean waves against golden sand.

Every hug was an ember of hope, patience, vigor, and peace for me. Every kiss was a lightning strike to keep my brain running with electricity.

There was no better gift than the *purity* of a mother's love. Fierce, but soft as cream.

Warm like freshly-washed linen.

Bright as a sunlit day.

Heavenly like the fluffy clouds in the sky.

*Remain strong for me, Mom. I love you. You're so incredible. I love you so, very much, and please thrive for years to come. I love you,* I'd say, resting in her arms.

I *needed* Mom here. If she wasn't here, I'd fall to the jaws of the abyss, and the world would be shrouded with emptiness.

*Finally*, two weeks after Father first left, Mom's phone rang, and we both jumped up off the sofa. Mom picked it up, her hand shaking and her face falling with grief, a somber glaze coming over her eyes.

It told me *everything* I needed to know before Mom told me it in words.

"She's gone, Winterlyn. Grandma Anny is up with the stars."

I nodded, sticking by her side, head dipped low in solemn respect for the religion-crazed fallen McCormick. Up in the stars, Grandma Anny would find peace, heal from her ailments, and live a brighter life *without* whamming what I thought was the Hebrew Bible atop someone's head every minute.

And, even with her bizarre antics, I did enjoy meeting Grandma Anny when I did, as if I hadn't, I wouldn't have seen my only link to my deceased grandfather.

Death impacted us all. It could lift us up, or leave us to grieve for months, to turn dust to diamonds again.

After the call went dead (don't laugh if you have any decency), Mom and I stood vacantly, staring at the floor, hands interlinked, thinking.

Thinking about life. Existential crises. The future. Father.

When Father would come home.

A stab of pain went through my heart, and longing for Father overtook me. His presence in the house was sorely missed, and it was less lively without him there, purging seasons of *It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia* and giving his daily holy preachings and just being the doof that being Father was. His cooking, light bickering with Mom, his typical run-of-the-mill dad jokes...

It wasn't *home*, it wasn't a McCormick place, without the pinnacle on top.

Father.

I prayed to my animal spirits hours later, at night, staring up at my ceiling, seeing stars, the allure of the night.

*Bring dad back to us,* I pleaded, curling up to sleep. Father *couldn't* abandon us - we *needed him*.

Turns out I had gained manifestation powers, as the moment I sat down to eat some French toast crafted deliciously by Mom the next morning, the sun still rising in the pinkish sky, the door opened.

My head *jerked* to the door, and Mom bolted out of the kitchen.

A man had entered the house, his vest dusty, his shoes somewhat polished and maintained, his face exhausted, mired with fog, and his chestnut eyes attentive, but foggy.

He turned to me.

"Hi, Winterlyn."

"**DAD**!!!" I screamed, dashing up to him and *flying* into his arms, and he twirled me around, overjoyed to see me, his love, his *daughter*. His chestnut eyes *shined*, his mournful trance snapped.

"*Edwin*! Baby, I'm so *overjoyed* you're home!" Mom joined in on the action, and we all just hugged Father, who laughed, and I felt something warm land on my cheek.

A liquid, dripping down the side.

*Tears*. Who was crying?

Staring up at Father, I found his eyes to be leaking the salty culprits.

*Father*. *Tears*.

And for the first time... I saw how *fragile* Father was.

I had forgotten because of my headstrong viewpoints, my arguments, and being whisked into multiple transformations by Varien, but Father was a *human*. Despite all his flaws, he was *human*. He made mistakes. He learned from those mistakes.

Humans weren't made of *stone*. They were made of straw, sticks, and glass, and could be seen right through.

Humans were transparent.

Father was *more* than just a strict, tradition-bound man. He *felt* raw emotion, the *surge* to be the father I required, the husband Mom required.

He may have failed at times in his duty, or was too strict, or was too unrelenting.

But he was *Father*. Something deep within him was apparent, this emotion, this *motivation*.

To stay with his family and to not let us fragment.

He *loved us*.

Mom, interrupting my analysis, checked on Father and put a hand under his shaved-a-few-days-prior chin. "Are you feeling well, Edwin? You should probably rest, it was a bit of a drive back. I can make you breakfast if you want-"

"Let me get settled, Lorelei," Father interjected. "I appreciate your concern... and I sure am famished, so I'd appreciate the food. But one thing at time! Do focus on yourself, dear."

He had a point. Mom was scratching a rash behind her ear, where she should have applied her CeraVe, and she nodded. "Right, sorry for the overbearingness! I'm just relieved you're home, honey. I'm so sorry for what happened... after what happened to Darrell a few years ago..."

"Mom is at peace now in heaven, where she and Darrell can sit by their pool and patio, watching the sun go down the hills and watching over me... Barry's children are alright, by the way, and Fanny is not in hysterics. Thank Steph. Why don't you cook me up whatever you were making in the kitchen?"

"You're making me use up my last French toast ingredients, mister. Right up," Mom replied, cuffing Father lightly on his ear before she walked back into the kitchen.

I hugged Father for a second time, and he hugged me back.

"Words can't describe how giddy I am to see you, Winterlyn," he told me.

"I missed you, dad. It was quiet without you... kinda spooky."

"You had your mom to keep you company, though, and it seems like you've held down the fort?"

"I sure did. Love you, dad." With all of the tenderness in the world, I glanced up at him and held his hands, smiling widely.

"That's my favorite little girl. I love you too." He gave me a kiss on the head.

*Favorite little girl* could have made me tear up then and there.

Father didn't just love me, but he also adored me.

I was his *favorite*.

I was his blooming flower.

I was *his girl*.

A moment like this could have lasted forever. Moments outlined in gold and sunlight and delicacy. Moments where we, as a family, were united. Were full of love and pride, unanimous in what we chose to do.

If only it *could* last forever...

No sooner had summer ended did the green grasses transform into browning stalks, and the chill of fall had tumbled into Pineshadow. The leaves of the trees budded into golden-yellows, oranges, flaming reds, and browns, plopping down in massive piles on the ground that me, being me, dived in. Cannonball!

Work made harder for Father, who was sweating by the time he was done with his raking, and I was taking a siesta in a pile of dead leaves.

A smug grin was inscribed in my face, likely because I had absorbed the cockiness of the fourth grader I was - ever the more confident, ever the more ready to make my mark in the world with my bold appearance and (private) bold statements.

As for the family, we had recovered from Grandma Anny's passing fairly quickly, and Father was back to his old self. No fears of a mindless zombie remained, abolished to the underground, for Father had re-adopted his family man persona and was his tenacious, determined, busy, Jewish-practicing self.

While Father retained his kerfuffles with my (formerly seen as outlandish) behavior, quite out of his perception of how a nine-year old should behave, as well as my downright obsession over Varien and her music pressing on his nerves, he had quit judging me for my half-shaved head and *had* come to regard it as Yahweh's blessing.

Pfft. You blame Rihanna, not some guy invented to force me to conform to bullcrap standards.

My maternal grandparents hadn't faced any painstaking, terrible challenges, but their memory had begun to dwindle, and it made me realize just how vital assisted living was for their wellbeing. Thankfully, they remembered me and actually were informed of my new haircut, which both loved.

Take that, Father.

*Everything* seemed like it was in perfect balance on both sides of the family, and with the bitterness of the cold and in the inhale of crisp autumn air, I puffed out my broadening chest and declared that *nothing*, no supernatural force, no god, no *evil*, could raze my family to the ground.

I was *wrong*. Dead, dead, *dead* wrong.

Darkness was on the prowl - and it was aimed directly at the soul of the McCormick family.

News reports spread like California wildfire of sickness rates being abnormally high, likely due to the temperatures, which were already dropping into the forties and late thirties prematurely. This enabled autumn-season illnesses, such as the common cold and flu, to spread swiftly.

Mom treated this news as if it were the Spanish flu outbreak of 1919, going into hibernation earlier than normal, refusing to venture outside and tend to her garden plants, a job left to me and Father, and we did the best we could to maintain the dying stalks, gathering the last harvest before the cold became too harsh.

We were also *beyond* careful when outside, washing our hands upon coming back in, disinfecting thoroughly, and cleaning the house of any germs and grime that could infect Mom.

Mom could not get infected. Mom could not get sick. *Mom could not fall ill*.

Because when the temperatures dropped, and when sicknesses spread, her lupus reared its ugly head and flared up violently.

And unfortunately, it *did* all too soon after the illness reports. It was *bad*.

It was *beyond* bad.

This was the *worst* lupus flareup Mom had *ever* experienced.

Rashes attacked the flesh of Mom's neck, legs, and arms, conquering any patch of pale skin, and three jars of CeraVe couldn't make the patches less flaky and itching. Her self-control was remarkable considering they prickled like fire ant stings.

Mom's mouth became so sore she was once more reduced to a fluid diet, which, as I said previously, wasn't substainable. Her arms and legs stiffened, concrete pillars locked in place.

She didn't get up from her beach chair or the sofa without wobbling or nearly slamming into the floor or wall, and Father and I helped her up.

We urged her to walk, try to loosen up those muscles, and we used portable heating pads to alleviate the cramping and soreness, but it bounced back hours later.

Lupus could not be killed. There was *no cure* and only temporary relief.

If it took us spending our entire *budget* to help Mom survive the months ahead, we'd sacrifice it *all*.

When Mom didn't walk around and got up to make food, Father fed her, and the babyish moves profoundly irritated her.

"Edwin, h-honey, I'm fine... I'll get up... later. You can stop... fussing over me," she retorted, but her voice was hoarse and dry.

"Lorelei, get some exercise. It'll help your muscles."

"I'm fine, Edwin..."

But Mom *wasn't* fine. Her voice was *sore*, raspy, not so pappy, and her lips were dry, cracking from the lack of Chapstick.

Her rashes plastered her body *everywhere*, and the sight made my heart and my lungs contract.

What Mom was trying to do, insisting she could stand her own with this monstrous flareup, was a mystery to me then, but, in a rare wild card move, I *agreed* with Father.

"No, dad's correct, mom. Lupus isn't treating you too great right now. Why don't you get up, walk around, and get something to drink and eat? Your strength *has* to stay up."

Mom lost her stubborn streak, conceded, and got up. "Okay, fair point... I'll t-try." She stiffly walked laps around the house, pleasing me and Father, and we went into the kitchen to prepare more liquid food.

At school, the amount of healthy students in classes diminished, with many called in absent because of colds, the flu, hacking, stuffy noses, and drippy eyes. It was eerily silent in the halls, and in my class, around eight to nine of my classmates had fallen ill and stayed home for a few days.

Everywhere I turned, there was sickness. Students falling like flies, teachers dropping like bombs.

My own teacher, Ms. Smallbison, was under the weather and repeatedly blew her nose while attempting to teach Native American history.

Each and every time someone else fell sick, I grew increasingly concerned that I was going to be the next victim. I mean, I wasn't blind to being sick; I had gotten allergies and minor colds before, but this autumn seemed to have a darkness coursing through it.

I *couldn't* get sick! If I became ill, Mom would be at an even higher risk of contracting what *I had* - and by then, her already-weak health would be *abysmal*.

News reports hurried in about the illnesses. I shut it all out. I wouldn't get sick. I wouldn't get sick. I wouldn't get sick.

Four days later, I awoke, my head dense and pinned down to my pillow. It was a struggle to open my eyes, which were crusty and stinging. Rubbing them, I felt fluid dab onto my fingers.

*Oh no*! It couldn't be!

When I sat up, my head spun, tight. I sniffed, and my nose itched until my body convulsed and I *sneezed*.

*Achoo*! Snot dribbled down my nose and onto my lips.

Oh *no*. Oh no no *no*!

I was *sick*.

Okay, this was no big deal. I must have had a common cold, and it went away in a few days with medicine. I would inform Father, and Mom would hunker down, and everything would be sunshine and rainbows.

Except that when I got up out of bed and my feet landed in the carpet, my throat shut closed on me, and I *hacked* for a straight minute, thrashing, before stopping, panting.

What the hell? Colds did not come with *that* obnoxious coughing.

Father came in, startled by the noise. "Winterlyn, are you-"

He stopped, saw my leaking eyes, red face, puffy nose, and snot trailing onto my cupid's bow.

"Mother of God!" Taking Yahweh's name in vain, he examined me in close proximity, risking turning his body into the perfect, tasty vessel for the cold to jump to, and he sighed.

"You definitely have a cold. Stay here, Winterlyn. I'll get you some breakfast and inform the front office that you're being called in sick."

I coughed for a second and third time before Father returned with some eggs and toast as well as a bottle of water.

"Here. This should help your body. I'll get you some cold meds at CVS later. I'm gonna go check up on Lorelei in the meantime."

"Okay," I croaked, digging into my breakfast that I almost spat out too many times because of my damn persistent cough.

The only pro was that I didn't have to haul my half-dead ill body to school.

Otherwise... everything felt *stuffy* and *migrainey*.

Mom sheltered away from us, trapped in the depths of the bedroom, her exits scarce as oasis water. It may have just been the cold muddling my thoughts, but I was *really* worried.

Autumn season, with every dawn, inflicted illness upon us all. I was sick, now, and had to keep my distance from Mom. Mom had to keep her distance from me.

We were separated by sickness. If we mingled, Mom's health would downward spiral.

*I* could be the one responsible for making Mom ill.

*No! I can't make Mom ill!* I yelled at myself, mentally frustrated and paranoid at the same time, and I wished for the ability to run with the falling leaves, enjoying the fall colors of life. The cold and its mucusy grudges shot retortful bullets at me, and I was pent inside while the not-so-hot tea steeped in my body.

Father, after delivering me my medicine, saw my hands fidget and detected my worry.

"What's wrong, Winterlyn?" he questioned.

"I... I don't wanna make Mom sick, but I don't want her to avoid us..."

I whined and coughed, and Father motioned at me to cover my mouth with my elbow.

"Baby, your mom *has to* block us out temporarily," he explained with an exhausted tone, purple lines under his eyes I didn't notice before. "She doesn't want us to feel the pain she's going through, having to isolate, but she's doing it to *protect* us *and* herself. When you're healthier, she'll come back out, and life will go on."

I *wanted* life to go on. I *wanted* this sickness to be over, so badly, and I longed for my throbbing head and faucet eyes to cease and disappear so my sights were polished and clear.

But things only went from *bad* to *worse*. I was coughing and bending my ribcage to breathe after two days, and then, Father started feeling woozy. He clocked in with a high fever, and his nose poured out streams of mucus, forcing him to stuff tissues up his nostrils. He looked like a walrus on steroids.

Sightings of Mom were few and far between. She spent most of her time in her bedroom and in the adjoining bathroom and had to have her food left at the door, as Father could not fully come in with such a dangerously high fever or germy nose.

Mom *wasn't* exercising. Mom *was* eating, but she wasn't *moving*. Her organs and *especially* her heart depended on that *shaking* and *moving* to stay alive.

Exercise was needed, or the heart wouldn't pump blood. The sheer *vitality* of life.

Some days, I'd hear her leave the room to go to the kitchen when she was annoyed of being served food. Mom loved her own cooking, but she wasn't usually this *territorial*. This *rash* decision-making to one-up Father and stand her ground.

She didn't *need to do this*. Lupus was hijacking her train of thought and was going into towns unknown.

I was worried. So so *worried*. Father told me that she'd remain strong, but the cracks under the surface were showing.

However, my concerns evaporated two days later, as my cough eased up, as did my runny nose and leaky eyes, and my head was no longer an overinflated balloon. Father's fever had sunk, and while his nose was still stuffed, he could breathe much easier and wasn't so dizzy.

We sat at the dinner table with Mom, picking at our beef, rice, and vegetables. It was just an average McCormick dinner, and I was wolfing down Father's beef cuts, the most Kosher meat he could find at Haggen.

Yet, something was amiss... something wasn't *right*. My Sherlock senses were honing in.

Gazing across the table, I found that Mom hadn't eaten a single scrap of the beef, one of her favorite Father dishes, and was rather poking at it with her fork, as if she expected it to do something, roar like a lion, magically start speaking, whatever.

That was odd... very odd.

Father, seeing me stare, caught Mom's full plate, an alarming contrast to our own plates, and he set his fork down on the table.

"Not hungry, Lorelei?" he asked gently, and Mom nodded, but did not reply, skimming through her vegetables with her fork.

She appeared to be *bored*. Half of her soul wasn't *there*.

I raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to question or fill with dread.

"Mom, are you okay?" I asked in tandem, but my tone was too quick, too interrogative. Mom looked more alert, her cerulean-blue eyes meeting mine.

Something was *awry*. They weren't so blue as they were before... and they looked *hurt*.

There was *pain* being disguised in the blatant blue.

"I'm a-alright, h-oney. I'm j-just exhausted... from lu-lupus."

Both me and Father's eyebrows shot up to the wrinkles on our forehead. Mom *never* stuttered.

*Thump*. *Thump*. *Thump*. My stomach teetered on the edge of flipping, and Father gripped the tablecloth in sheer foreboding.

Something was wrong with Mom. Something was *wrong*.

Then, Mom pushed herself up from the table, her legs shaking, turning to Jello. "I just need... to run to the bath-bath-bathroom... r-real quick."

She took one step.

What proceeded to happen next was one of the most *horrifying* moments of my *entire life*.

Mom swayed, her eyes rolling into the top of her head, and a hand wildly clutched at her chest. She coughed, hacking loudly, saliva flying at the walls.

Her legs slid against the tile of the kitchen.

Her body impacted the ground with a *thud*.

My heart ceased to exist, and I tottered backwards, clutching at the hem of my shirt.

I *screamed*.

"***LORELEI***!" Father, screeching, sped to her side and collapsed, shaking her wildly as she spluttered weird gunk out from her mouth, heaving and heaving, trying to get the demon possessing her body out, though it wasn't going to let go and plunged deeper.

I stood there, numb from the shock, frostbite inhabiting my arms and legs.

My mouth was open. My heart was clawing, desperate for air, which had been drained from my body. I was panicking, hyperventilating, shivering uncontrollably.

*What was going on with Mom*?

Mom looked lifeless, her soul shoved out of her body, its vessel; her blue eyes were a sea, voided into the drain of a bathub, darker, more black, no life reflected in the pupils.

Her coughs were feeble, but they were also gagging her, and the edges of her lips were blue.

She had *collapsed*.

She couldn't *breathe*.

*Mom could be having a heart attack*.

The realization almost made me scream for a second time, and I opened my mouth.

"*Winterlyn*," Father, dissuading me, called out with a hauntingly low voice - the most grim tone he could *ever* use on me. "I *need you* to **listen to every word I say**."

Nodding and quivering, I faced his chestnut eyes, which had died of their color, and his cheekbones were angled out with *horror*.

Sheer, *violent* horror.

"Remain *calm*, baby. Take *deep breaths*. You **must** remain calm. Please *stay* with your mother, **please** make sure she's *breathing*. You **need** to keep her *breathing*. I'm going to call 9-1-1."

I opened my mouth to wail, hesitating, and if the wall could talk to me, it would have told me that my facial features had permamently frozen in trepidation.

"**Winterlyn**! Please, you *must* listen to me! Please *stay* with Lorelei!"

Tentatively, I stared at him and Mom, who looked to be on the verge of passing out.

On the verge of *death*.

He was right. Now or never. If I stood here and didn't tend to Mom, she could *die*!

Blinking back tears, I fell to Mom's side, the clownshow CPR training I learned from school coming to me in small flashes, and I compressed her chest with as much power as I could muster from my incredibly unsteady arms, and Father, yanking his phone out from his back pocket, dialed 9-1-1 with frantic, trembling fingers.

Four minutes. That was the time it took for paramedics to pull up to our old-bricked house, burst through the door with gusto, and lift Mom's unconscious, blue-lipped body onto a stretcher.

We followed; I was in my socks, but there was no time remaining to collect my things or even dress properly. Mom *needed* to get to the ER *pronto*.

Sirens blared and the ambulance rattled as we traveled to the Travis J. Wong Emergency Center. Mom had been hooked up to a wiry IV tube and some other instruments I couldn't clearly identify.

The world was spinning, and gravity was abandoning me. Was the world far off axis, or did it become a top spinning on a glass table? Everything was painfully lurching.

Time was no precarious balance.

Time was slipping down the *hourglass*.

The world was a cruel place, filled with horror and restlessness, feelings frought in my belly, and I overcame the urge to puke and roll on the floor, sobbing my heart out.

My body was in the mood for coughing out more of the cold junk in me. Go freaking figure. Father did the same, his eyes not ripping themselves off of Mom, hopeful, *praying* that she'd magically awaken.

She did not.

Five minutes. We arrived at the hospital, and Mom was wheeled through multiple bleach-scented hallways (immaculate), slamming plastic doors, and Father and I ran, coughing, spluttering, panting, chests and ribcage crumpled and squished into flat burgers.

The ICU loomed over us, but it closed its gaping maw on us, and the paramedics zoomed Mom into a room, shutting the curtain on us.

Father gripped the blue fabric, ready to tear it off its metal hinges, but through exhausted pants, I tapped him, stopping him.

"Dad, I don't think we want to see what they're doing to mom."

My voice was shaky. How could I find comfort? Cajole Father into not going ballistic on the staff and getting to his love?

The panic simmered in Father's chestnut eyes, and I swore to Varien's name that his pupils had devoided of his eye color entirely.

He nodded, leaning against the wall, breathing in, breathing out. Breathing in, breathing out. I copied him - this was the only mechanism we had right now to stay calm.

There was zero calm. Nada. My mom could be *dead*.

*Dead*.

I saw it. The flashback. The ghoulish scene of the house where she had stumbled near-unconscious on the kitchen floor, hacking, her throat cleaving itself.

The hospital reeked of bleech. The acrid smell that was used to *hide* death.

*People died here*. Hospitals were the scary place that children like me *despised*.

Mom being here could not a death sentence. Be rational, Winterlyn. Be *realistic*. This is your mom. Your mom has dealt with lupus since her teen years. She will not die.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

*WHY IS THE WHOLE WORLD ON FIRE??*

The wait was long, debilitating. Mercy was far from our reach.

Father and I stood. Father and daughter. Waited.

Ten thousand years later, a nurse, an Asian-American, dipped her head in greeting to us, a clipboard held in her right hand.

"I am afraid the prognosis isn't looking great," she admitted, the news not making her revise her neutral, cautionary voice.

"What's Lorelei's condition??? Is she awake???" Father butted in, effacing the gap and *almost* scaring the nurse out of her damn skin.

This woman had a ton of patience. I respect that.

"Lorelei's... her immune system is very *weak*. We did some quick tests and found it to be jacked with mucus and fluids, but she has an IV in and she's getting fluids into her body. She's also a bit thin... she hasn't eaten or drank much in the past few days."

Father gasped, and I followed suit, and we both turned to each other, shock slicing across our faces with a double-edged sword.

Mom *was* sick, up Stuff's Creek without a paddle, and she had *hid it* from us.

Mom lied about being sick to us.

I wanted to sink to the ground, tunnel to the earthworms, and live with the moles. Father's face deflated, and his cheekbones caved in on themselves.

He looked more bone-weary than he ever had in his *whole life*.

The nurse cleared her throat. "As of now, we're going to keep running tests on Lorelei to figure out what kind of illness she has. This is definitely *not* a cold, however... I can tell you that much."

That much wasn't in the *least* reassuring.

I coughed into my elbow, sniffing, and Father sneezed.

"And seeing as you two appear to have illness," the nurse continued, "I'll call up a doctor for you."

"I can't leave my wife!" Father protested, but the nurse shook her head sadly, quashing what was so futile.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you and your... daughter?"

I nodded.

"Daughter need to get medical treatment, or what you have isn't going to be fended off."

She led us to another room, peeling us away from Mom even more. She was *alone* with men and women in purple and blue scrubs, and it was just us against the world.

The world, its darkness, its creepy-crawlies, and the wish it had to bisect our family in two.

Fifteen minutes passed by in the hour, and a doctor walked in, hands latex-gloved and ready to roll.

"Ah, hello, good evening. I'm Dr. Dee. Names, please? You came via ambulance and didn't register at the front given your situation."

"Edwin McCormick," Father rasped curtly. "And this is my daughter, Winterlyn." He pointed to me, and Dr. Dee nodded.

"Mhm. Let me pull up your medical records, then I will examine you. I hear you are sick?"

"Yes, and I presume you hear of what happened with my wife?"

"She is next on my list. Her name as well?"

"Lorelei."

"I see, I see."

How was Dr. Dee so *relaxed*? Mom could be about to ascend up to the stairwell to heaven, or lay with gadgets and shiny tools in the ICU, and we were in far less dire straits.

Doctors were another level of professional.

Dr. Dee pulled up our medical records. "No abnormalities, no ER trips until now, all in the green."

With nothing else to be said, he immediately began his examinations, prying open our mouths, inquiring about our symptoms, asking about any allergies and hospital visits.

It was an agonizing hour of back-and-forth of Dr. Dee's inquiries, which led to the answer that Father and I had been *longing for*.

And *not* longing for as well.

"Mkay, so *both* of you have a variant of pneumonia."

*Pneumonia*.

*Oh*. *God*.

Father was *wrong*. We were both inflicted with *pneumonia*.

A *ravenous* disease.

Which almost certainly meant...

"Hang on! Don't hyperventilate! You have a non-deadly variant, and it seems like it is in its dying stages in your bodies - your immune systems are well-equipped and healthy. Mr. McCormick, here's some antibiotics for you."

He handed Father a small jar, then handed a medium-sized jar to me.

"And here's a children's antibiotic for you, Ms. McCormick. One pill per day."

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Dr. Dee, thank you, I appreciate these due to the circumstances," Father said, staring at something nonexistent on the tile. "But can you please check on my wife?"

"Roger. I'll be back to you as soon as I can." Dr. Dee pulled open the door, and then pulled it closed.

*Click*.

The silence was echoing, buzzing around the room and giving us little to do to occupy ourselves. Occupying wasn't an option, anyway, because our brains were worried for Mom.

I had made a disturbing connection, and I couldn't bear it, couldn't *believe it*, yet I knew it was more than likely the truth.

"Dad?" I whispered, shifting to his side and leaning against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around me.

"Yes, honey?"

"I think... I think mom has pneumonia too."

I just struck a knife into Father's *chest*, and he looked at me like I was about to be executed for treason.

"Winterlyn, you shouldn't *assume things* like that! Lorelei *can't* have pneumonia. She *can't*!"

"But dad, if we both have it, that must mean we passed it onto her-"

"*Winterlyn*!" Father hissed, choking, and his eyes were half-lidded. He was about to cry.

Inwardly, I chastised myself for making his anxiety *worse*, and sending my vocal chords off to Brazil, I hugged him, not letting go.

We just held each other, all that we had, as the minutes elapsed. I imagined that I was back home, in my bed, with the stars for a roof, and Mom was singing her lullaby to me, humming that saccharine tone...

*Click*. Sentiment perished.

Dr. Dee had made his return, and his face was lined with austere, wrinkles on his forehead jutting out, and his eyes were dark, scraps of neutrality present eviscerated.

A minute passed, a minute I spent worrying out the outcome.

What would happen to Mom.

I couldn't lose Mom. My mind was slipping to the death. I could not think about death.

Chastisings were helpless.

The minute was up.

Dr. Dee hung his head down in defeat.

I bit on my lip, and my chest ached, expanded beyond its capacity. I knew the word salad that was about to be released from that mouth.

"After thorough examinations of your wife, Mr. McCormick... I have to be the bearer of bad news in these times. Lorelei has pneumonia just like you two do, but there is a catch..."

Father's skin was whiter than the white on a snowy Pineshadow day, and his eyes were *grayed* out. I trembled with disbelief. Denial got you so far in life...

"As I've learned from her medical records, Lorelei having lupus further compromises her conditions. There was a ton of fluid stored in her lungs, and we believe that from the evidence of her latest flareup, that strained her lungs so much that her air supply was practically cut off."

I squeezed my legs together. Mom had missed *death* by a *whisker*.

"Is she okay? Please tell me she's okay!" Father begged.

"She has been stabilized, but she is resting. We will attempt to give her solid food tomorrow and keep her on an IV and antibiotics... she *must* stay with us indefinitely. I am sorry."

"T-Thank you, Dr. D-Dee..." Father sputtered, coughing through tears, his eyes puffy and red. Father was sinking to the lowest point in his life - one of his *worst nightmares* was losing the woman he had loved for so many years.

I was in the same boat. I could *never* afford to lose Mom, a lantern in the night sky that guided me when I was lost, encouraged me to be the *me* I wanted to be, and put Father in his place when his habits became too overbearing.

Dread pooled in my belly, and invisible scars were rampant on my outer layer. Still, I drifted closer to Father, hugged him, and let the tears fall, splashing onto his hands.

"I'm here, dad," I promised so softly Dr. Dee couldn't hear.

He got up from his chair. "I'll leave you two to process the news. I... can't set anything in stone in regards to Lorelei yet. Nothing is guaranteed. Have hope for Lorelei, and keep her in your thoughts. Keep her in your heart. You can never know if things will worsen or improve. Just *hope*."

He left us to it in a split second.

*Hope*. I had to *hope*.

Mom's resolve to *live* reappeared in my head, parting the mist that was there. Mom didn't surrender when the battle was rough and tattered her.

Mom was a *fighter*. A *warrior*. Lupus was the roommate she had to live with, and she had accepted it as a part of herself that she couldn't erase.

She always triumphed over it. Yes. *Yes*!

Mom had a hair-raising moment tonight, but there *had* to be a miracle on the horizon. Someone *had* to be listening to me.

Hear my prayers, hear my words, and give Mom the strength she needed to recover.

Father moved me onto his lap. "Winterlyn, I need you to pray with me. Pray to Yahweh, Abraham, Moses. Whoever, tonight. Please pray and tell them to save your mother, to bless her with healing."

While I'd go on with an internal spiel of how praying to Jewish holy figures wouldn't pull the Hail Mary out of a rabbit's ass, that was inappropriate and insensitive.

Mom *needed* us to pray and be *there* for her. So we prayed, Father to the Holy Three, and me to my animal spirits.

I called upon the petals of the bleeding hearts and the feathers of the birds to aid me.

I held nothing against Father, *nothing*, as I hugged him.

Eventually, we saw Mom when night had fully fallen. She was breathing - *thank the heavens* - but was hooked to an IV, a food tube, numerous other devices, and was on a respirator. Her chest rose, and sunk again, and her fingers hung limply from her sides.

"We were able to pump fluid and food into her body," the nurse informed us. "But pneumonia has made it burdensome for her to breathe, eat, drink, or speak. She is sleeping now, so don't rouse her. Go home, and you can stop by tomorrow and check in."

Real quick, before we departed, Father blew a kiss to Mom. "Love you, Lorelei," he whispered, waving, and being his puppet, I perfectly mimicked his actions.

"I love you, mom," I murmured, my ice-blue eyes meeting her closed ones.

We then headed home, took our medicine, and went to bed.

The next day, the house was dreary, and the depravement of Mom's bubbly voice, her breakfast, her busywork, and even her coughing made it feel like we were living in a void.

Where your voice echoes back to you, and your view is clouded by the fall of the rain.

After dinner, we ventured back to the hospital, checked in, and were granted access to the ICU, entering Mom's room. The nurse was there near her bed, her clipboard in hand.

"Good to see you! I think you're going to like the news I have..."

Brightening, Father and I stood by each other as the nurse whispered something to Mom.

Mom *moved*, turning over to face us, ventilator latched to her mouth.

But through that ventilator was a *smile*, and blue light radiated in her eyes, awake and *seeing*.

"Lorelei is still struggling to breathe on her own, but she can talk - in small amounts. She also has some energy, but not a lot, so don't tire her out, okay?"

"Got it," Father stated, and I gave a dip of my head.

"I'll leave you guys to talk, then."

The nurse dipped behind the curtain, and carefully, we approached Mom.

"Hi...!" she welcomed us, her voice gravelly.

"Lorelei! Baby, I'm so glad you're awake... I thought..."

"It's... it's okay... Edwin..."

Mom lifted her hand slugglishly to try to touch Father's chest, but he put it back on the hospital mattress.

"You're tired, Lorelei. Rest. I want to talk to you, privately... if that's fine with you, Winterlyn?"

Look at Father being so lenient with me.

"Yeah, I'll wait outside." I shoved the blue curtain aside and waited on the beige wall, careful as to not eavesdrop.

What they spoke about was not something meant for me.

The nurse, walking by me, spotted me waiting for Father outside and stopped.

"Where's your father?" she asked.

"Inside with Mom. He wanted to talk to her privately."

"Ah. How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

The tips of my ears heated a little at her question, asking for such sacred information, but I figured it might be for hospital stuff.

"Nine. I'll be ten in December."

"I relate to the pain you're going through over this... having a loved one collapse in front of you and then go to the ER is a horrific whirlwind for a young child. For someone your age, you're surprisingly mature..."

Father poked his head out, shoving the curtain aside. "Lorelei wants to speak to you, Winterlyn."

"Alright," I responded, hastily pushing the curtain off to my right and approaching Mom, her eyes glimmering with the love of serene ocean waves.

"Winterlyn..." she uttered, her voice scratchy.

"Mom..." I held her hand, gingerly tracing the palm and letting her fingers and mine interlock. I blinked, telling myself not to cry, telling myself that I had to be strong for Mom.

Mom couldn't worry seeing me so worried for her. She probably had enough of that with Father being hardly able to glue himself in one piece.

"I'm so sorry this has happened to you... you don't deserve to have lupus *and* pneumonia wrecking- *wreaking* havoc on your body... I *love you*, mom. *Infinitely*. There are so many more things I could tell you, but I'd be tripping over my words... *fight*. Please *fight* this. I know you can. You've done it before and you can do it *again*, mom."

Mom glanced up at me, forming a weak smile, and she blinked, the compassion beaming off of her like a lighthouse. To guide my way to her.

"Winterlyn..." Her breath fogged her respirator, but it evaporated. "Darling, you're the *entire world* to me, and I can't mean it enough... I'm... I'm so proud... of what you've accomplished..."

She stopped for a second, catching her breath, and the machines around her beeped, tracking her heart rate and vitals.

"Nothing will *ever* make me stop loving you for a second. I love your creativity. Your... forward way of thinking... your *fire*. Keep the ember in your heart *alive*, baby. I *love you*... *love you* so much... and I will always... protect you."

For a while, I sat with her, and we discussed our favorite things. Our favorite memories. Heartbeat Point. Cooking mishaps. Watching movies on the sofa. Cutting my hair. Letting me talk about Varien.

I desired to spend the rest of the day with Mom, but she was plum-tuckered after half an hour, and the nurse tapped me on my shoulder.

"That's enough for today, Winterlyn. Your mom needs some shuteye."

Mom had now shut her eyes, grinning peacefully in her sleep, and I grinned, blowing a kiss to her.

*Love you, mom,* I silently told her.

Hope was a geyser in my chest, gushing out hot water - my hope. Hope that Mom would be okay.

Mom was weak, needed assistance, and would stay in the hospital. However, she was talking. She was *alive*.

She hadn't let lupus and pneumonia end her. There was a chance she'd *escape* this.

A chance of her to return.

She was *going to make it*.

I was sure.

Father was sure, and as we held hands, we shared the brimming relief that soon, this ordeal would be over.

But soon never came.

The following day, a Monday, I was back in school with my recovering classmates, learning about the Battle of Wounded Knee with Ms. Smallbison, when the phone rang. Ms. Smallbison dropped her lecture and answered the phone.

"Yes? Leaving early? Gotcha." *Thunk*. "Winterlyn, pack your things, you're going home."

*Home? But why?* I wondered, gathering my things and heading for the front office, where Father was impatiently circling the lobby.

"Dad?? Dad, what's going on, why have I been signed out-"

He seized me by the wrist suddenly, and started running to the doors, to the outside.

"Winterlyn, we have no time! I can't explain fully, but we have to get to the hospital! Lorelei... her body is refusing food and drink! She almost went comatose and they had to nearly get the crash cart!!!"

I gasped, breathing spiraling into insanity. Mom had stopped eating and drinking. The miracle yesterday of her weak, yet so hopeful, so warm as evening fire, had fizzled out. She had *almost died*, but by some means, had avoided falling into a coma.

*Avoided the crosshairs of death*.

*Death*. *Death*. *Death*.

I screamed, breaking out into horrific sobs, and Father put a hand on my back, but it was as useless as fool's gold.

No! I couldn't lose Mom! I was too young. I was just *nine*. I couldn't lose Mom, who'd done so much for me...

I *needed* Mom. She couldn't give up... she never did.

Father, one hand steady on the wheel, held my left hand with his right. The hospital loomed before us.

Compared to a hospital, it was a bleached-from-death *dungeon*.

We stepped foot in the ICU room, and the nurse greeted us, her loose brown hair spilling on her shoulder blades.

Father beat her to the speaking game this time. "How is she?? Please tell me she's okay! She can't be dead-"

"Calm down, sir," she assured, waving her hand at him so he wouldn't try to shake her for answers. "Lorelei hasn't gone comatose, and she's had tiny amounts of food and water successfully navigated into her body. But..."

"But what??" Father questioned in a frenzy, his hands trembling, and I found myself leaning on him like I did in the hospital room.

"She's weak. She hasn't fought off much of the pneumonia... we believe her lupus is overriding any of our efforts."

"No!" Father exclaimed. "There has to be something you can do!"

"We will try to administer more medicine, but we can't give her a cocktail, or we risk damaging her body and giving her unintended side effects."

"Can we see her?" I asked, gently chiding Father with a touch of my hand, telling him that he had to maintain his sanity in the hospital and not pry the kind nurse in a blind rage.

"Of course you can, sweetheart. Go on in, but don't tire her out."

We pulled back the curtain and sped to Mom's side in an instant, but screeched to a halt, chilled to our *cores* by what had befallen Mom's body.

She was thinner, having lost more weight, and her starry blouse was loose. Her cheekbones were gaunt, and her skin had paled. I noticed she was hooked to *even more* machines, none I recognized, but they were *beeping* and *stirring* and making unsightly noises.

Mom's eyes fluttered open, and they were glassy, the cerulean-blue dense, like a fog of blindness had slumped in.

Mom cracked the faintest grin. Her skin had plethoras of red rashes.

Father choked up, stumbling to his knees. "Lorelei... you're *endlessly* beautiful. You're still as beautiful as that adoring young girl I took to the lake on my first date..."

"What a time... to be alive," Mom croaked, stroking his hand with a finger. "Thanks..."

Father gripped her hand, outright refusing to drop it. He couldn't bring himself to, and I don't think I could if I did the same.

"Fight," Father urged her. "Fight this, honey. Kick it in its tail. I know you've seen your enemies, and your battle scars, and doubted yourself, but baby, I love you so much. You can't leave this family and give up. Winterlyn needs you. *I* need you. *We* need you, Lorelei! Think of all that you have..."

"Ed...win... I'll try," Mom whispered hoarsely, breaking out into a hacking fit, and her respirator was beclouded with white.

I shifted in her field of vision, and she cleared a lump in her throat.

"I want... want to speak... to Winterlyn."

Father left wordlessly, alone with his thoughts, and I hesitated in every step approaching my sickly mother of nine years.

She looked so... *frail*... no, Winterlyn, don't think such detrimental thoughts.

"Hi, mom," I greeted, my tone barely breaking even, and I shook her hand, holding it.

"I'm so... hap...py to see you... Winterlyn," she stated, lip quivering, and she dry heaved a few more times.

"I believe in you, mom, with all my heart. You can recover from this. You'll prevail, and after, we can go stargazing and get some more milkshakes?"

I had to be optimistic. *This* had to be *our* future.

Mom *would* be in my future.

"I'd... love that," Mom said as she nodded. Her fingers twitched, and a shudder passed through her body. It really demonstrated just how much weight she lost with the loose clothing.

It drove me to think...

"Mom, is there anything I can do to comfort you?" I asked, delicately tracing the wrinkles on her hand.

"There's n-n-nothing I appreciate... more than your company," Mom replied soothingly, gazing at me with blue pools of love, and she added, "I knew you were the perfect girl... the snowy day you were... born. You're that perfect girl... my little sunshine and snowflake. I love you, more than I could... ever love myself, and I would give you *all* of the love in the world, because, my darling... you are a huge part of the reason... why I'm still here..."

I blinked, sensing the tears at the corner of my eyes. Mom would give all of the world's love to me if she could.

Because I was her beautiful daughter.

The tears fell. I had no shame crying in front of Mom, here, in our moment, where no one could burst our bubble.

"I love... your attitude... and how you didn't let your father mold... you into those standards..." Mom continued, rasping and panting with remarkable strength. "You've made important... connections outside religion... and you heeded the call in your heart..."

"I like being a tomboy," I admitted, causing her eyes to glint with approval. She had more to say.

"You... fostered your love of nature, realized that its meanings to me also lay in you. You've made me so proud, branching out... and not letting... anyone screw a cork... into your creativity and curiosity..."

My love of nature, all thanks to Mom. Weeping, I brushed away the tears.

"Thank you, mom. You mean so much to me, and I don't know where I'd be without you. To have you as my mother is one of the most beautiful things to ever happen to me... and I love you for your love of the stars, gardening, birds, flowers... Mom, I *love you* for *everything* you do. You give me strength when I'm at my lowest. You let me confide in you when I'm hopeless. You *are* my everything. You *are* my mother. When this is over, we can get ice cream and Hot Topic trips again."

As soon as Mom would be out of the hospital, it would be Häagen-Dazs and Hot Topic for us, the dynamic mother-daughter duo.

"Oh, how I'd love... that..." Mom rasped, and she slowly held her hand up until she touched my chin, caressing it. Her eyes, fixed on mine, shone with the gift of a mother's love.

"Winterlyn... wherever it leads you... let your heart be your guide. Use it to find the way forward... the other people in life aren't to dictate who you wish... to be..."

Her voice pitched from loving to sorrowful, and my mood fell. I had a bad feeling...

"Be yourself, *only* yourself. Be what the world... *doesn't* expect of you. And... when you're... lost... look up to the stars at night... because the guidance you seek... will be right there with them..."

Suddenly, I realized that Mom was attempting to indirectly communicate something to me. The stars, looking up to them when I was at a crossroads... being myself...

I recalled us looking up at the stars and me thinking about how Mom would one day be up there, watching over me.

Her lullaby, where she promised to be in the stars when she was no longer walking the ground of the earth.

A *rock* dropped on my forehead, and it cracked my skull clean in two.

Mom was telling me what to do when *she died*.

No... it couldn't be... did Mom *believe* she was *actually* going to *die*?

"Mom, please don't say things like that!" I begged frantically, reminding myself to keep my voice to a whispery shout so Father wouldn't barge in and have a mental breakdown.

"Winterlyn... remember my lullaby... I sang to you that I'd always be up in the stars... even when... I'm no longer here. You must remain strong... and carry on... even when the world has turned its back to you and you feel betrayed..."

This life advice should have raised my spirits and made me sprint around the room in glee, but I felt the dread accumulate in my body. What was supposed to lift me up only was a rough slam into the hard, bleached tile of reality.

Mom was *slipping away*.

She couldn't!

"Mom! Please, you have to conquer this! Battle it! Please..."

Mom ignored my infirm cries. "I have a present for... you... Winterlyn."

*A present?* I looked at her and the floor near us, but I saw absolutely nothing indicative of a present.

Mom faced another direction. "While I wanted to give this to you on your tenth birthday... I think... its true special qualities would be best made known to you now..."

Elevating her head an inch above her blue hospital pillow, her eyes traveled to the corner of the room.

"Sa... Sal..."

*Sal?*

Who was *Sal*? I didn't know of anyone named Sal.

The area near the window rustled, and out from the curtains came a face *strikingly familiar* to me.

Our next-door neighbor, Saul. The guy who had broken down in fear when he had almost hit a two-year old me with his truck.

What was he doing here? How did he learn of Mom's emergency room trip? Did Father inform him? Too many questions.

In his hand was a crinkled Walmart bag, holding something within.

"Your mom wanted me to gift you something, Winterlyn. Want to come over and see?" he invited, sitting in a navy-pillow chair.

I made my way over, forgoing my thoughts of the morgue and gravestones and evaluating the Walmart bag.

Saul reached inside, pulling out something *wooden*, rectangular.

All of a sudden, my eyes widened with *familiarity*, *vast* familiarity.

A box. Rectangular, brown.

The box Mom had gotten for a "project" at *Tuesday Morning*.

That same box now had *fluid*, *flowing* silver etchings on the front, back, top, and sides. On the front, falling leaves. On the top, vines, symbols, crawling to the outer edges of the box. On the sides, falling snow.

*Snowfall*.

*Symbols*.

*Nature*.

*Leaves*.

And on the bottom of the front, under the latch, were two finely-carved silver initials: *WM*.

*My* initials.

I *gasped*.

Mom had wanted Saul to make the box *mine*. It was going to be my tenth birthday present...

There was something in the etchings, in the carvings, that was trying to remind me of something. I just couldn't remember *what*.

I put my hands on the sides of the box, imagining that I could hold the symbols and make them expand and pulsate with magic... like a blacksmith could control metal.

A key appeared in my mind, unlocking the chest.

*Gasp*.

The etchings and carvings... they weren't just *random*.

Mom had specifically *requested* for Saul to carve the cover art of *Aether and Light* into the box.

The box was themed after *Varien*. For *me*.

"Love it?" Saul asked.

"I... I *love it*!" I jumped around, the box cradled in my hands, and I kept re-tracing those etchings, using my imagination to will the box into coming to life.

"Thank you, mom... thank you so much... you don't understand how much this means, having you go out of your way to have Saul do this..."

"Any... time... pumpkin. The box has magic... and it's all... yours." She yawned, weakly patting her pillow, and Saul got up, heading out.

I was going to follow his lead so Mom could rest. Her stamina was low.

"Before... you leave," Mom sputtered, causing me to spin to her. "Rely on your... strengths, Winterlyn. Find your... battlecry, listen to... your heart... and don't deny the twists and turns... that want you to chase journeys... you are beautiful, and no one... can take that away from you."

She closed her eyes, the ends of her blouse falling in around her legs, and I took it as my cue to leave. Parting the curtain, I strutted out with the box and showed it to Father.

"No way... that was supposed to be a birthday present?"

"Yeah... but Mom was right to give it to me now. It's *everything*."

"*Everything*," Father echoed.

A tiny ember of hope floated in my heart.

A day later, the ember was doused in water.

*Mom was past the point of no return*.

She was asleep, not even stirring when we came for another visitation, her eyelids red and flaked at the edge with rashes. She was so thin that her muscles were beginning to protrude, and her skin sagged out, unable to contour around her flimsy bones.

"No..." Father stumbled out the word, balling up his fists and obstructing himself with brute strength from sobbing.

Every single machine in the room was tied to her, embedded in her skin, or hooked to her. Vitals beeped. Lines zigzagged on green screens. A toilet bag was near her feet.

Mom couldn't *move*. The nurse had even more negative news to stockpile onto us, too.

"She isn't ingesting any food or drink. Her lungs and body are filled with so much mucus that we can't pass anything through. And surgery and other treatments aren't an option either."

"*Why*? Father demanded, about to walk off of a crumbling cliff, snap, and rip out the nurse's lungs. He was concerned for Mom, desiring every answer he could that could bring her back.

Would she even be brought back at this point?

Mom had hinted to me already that she had a feeling she could die. Father... Father was close to losing her and losing his last shreds of sanity.

*I* was close to loosing her, and it was an infectious cold that sawed the organs in my body. Chewing my lip, I held onto Father.

"Lorelei's body is brittle," the nurse tenderly explained. "If she's rushed into surgery, she could fall into a coma, or at worse, die... the most we *can* do is assign her to these machines."

Father was *crushed* like a soda can on the street. The nurse left, and he sat by Mom's side of the bed, his fingers resting on her wrist. He stared at her, whimpering, shivering.

I joined him.

"Dad...?" I hugged him, burying into him, fighting the own tears that I needed to keep at bay for Mom.

"Please stay alive, Lorelei. Don't die on me... please... it's too soon. I want you to see Winterlyn grow up... Please, Lorelei! Please... you can't leave us so soon..."

Father's words seared my gut, and I *flinched*. If Mom died, she would *never* see me grow and mature into the beautiful young girl she promised I'd turn out to be.

We'd *never* see each other *again*.

Severed in different words, of fantasy and fiction, of foxes and hounds.

My head spun, and I clung to Father, tightly digging my fingernails into his back.

Mom couldn't die. Mom couldn't die. *Mom couldn't die*. Pneumonia was laying waste to her body, and lupus had blocked *all* medicinal treatments designed to rescue Mom from danger. The evil inhabiting in the form of illness was trapping her, brooding in her, sparring in her cavities and crevices to *take control* and end the woman who had triumphed for years over her sadistic roommate.

Mom was a *fighter*. She hadn't let lupus claim her life for *decades*.

That certainly couldn't be the case now.

Mom couldn't surrender. She couldn't back down. She couldn't give up and let her body deteriorate beyond the point of unrecognizability.

*Mom couldn't give up*.

She was still breathing, and I saw the faintest rise and fall of her chest. She was *breathing*.

As long as there was a *way* - a spark, ember, a petal, a stem - then Mom could win this war.

My hand twining with Father's, we put our hands together and *prayed*.

World, if you were listening to us, you wouldn't take Mom's life. You hear me? YOU HEAR ME? Mom was a *hero*. Mom was a *light*. You couldn't dare snuff her out and have us forget her. You couldn't dare take her when she still had so much to see and do with her family. Heal her. Give us a miracle. Let her lupus die back down.

Listen, world, listen.

Father kept clinging on to the hope that there *would* be a miracle. Mom would awaken, healthy, speak without a rasp, hug us, and head back home, where she'd wrap me in a loving hug before my bedtime and share her favorite wine and snacks with Father.

Alas, this latest round of wishful thinking was *fruitless*.

Mom's weight had dropped well below the healthy weight of a woman her age, and she was so thin her veins had become *defined* streaks and funnels on her hands and legs. Skin sagged off from the bone, eerily similar to what happens when you choose poorly in *Indiana Jones*, and rashes covered her thighs, elbows, and face. She had been overtaken, *conquered*. Her bones were jutting out, angular and stark, forming nightmare-fuel cliff faces.

It was *haunting*. Mom *never* got to here. Mon was *never* this violently ill.

Lupus and pneumonia were *destroying* her body. If she couldn't ward it off, she'd have *no body*.

*Heal, mom. Please heal... I love you. Please don't leave me. Not yet... I love you... if you can hear me...* I begged, me and Father each holding her hand.

Day four came. Mom's vital readings were stunted, eyes closed - and they would forever remain that way.

Father was hunched over her bed, kissing Mom on her cheek, warming her hand, whispering prayers and promises that would never finalize, and I listened to the machines as they *beeped*, *beeped*, *beeped*.

Two nurses came in, facing us with steely faces.

"Her situation is worsening... she doesn't have much longer to live, Mr. McCormick."

"There's nothing that can be done," he blankly stated as a fact, not a question, not bothering casting a chestnut eye at them. Mom was his gem. He couldn't bear to look away. She could disappear if he blinked, drifted, or left. He couldn't *leave*. He was latched, mind disintegrating, and the shell of a man he was emerged. I cringed, going to Mom's other side and brushing out her hair.

"Yes, nothing can be done. We came in here... to ask you about something very personal," the other nurse mentioned, and his friend picked up for him.

"We wanted to discuss arrangements for Lorelei to be moved into hospice care with you."

*Hospice*.

What was *hospice*? I felt ill, swallowing down bile. Their hushed, serious tones told me that this was something *insidious*.

"H-Hospice?" Father questioned, reluctantly peeling his gaze off Mom and to the nurses.

"That's correct, sir. She's not going to come back from this."

Arrow through the *head*. I lightly gasped.

*Mom was never going to return to her original, old self*.

"Would you like for her to be in hospice?"

"*Absolutely not*!" Father snapped, running to my side and picking up my hand. "Lorelei is *still breathing*, and as long as she has that beating heart, she is *staying* in the ICU and not being banished to her death!"

"Uh... dad? What's h-hospice?" I interrupted, squeaking, quivering and I stared at the ground. I couldn't comprehend anything. Mist thronged my mind, and voices rang in my ears. The distant wail of an air raid siren sounded.

The female nurse gently kneeled down next to me, her eyes soft and compassionate.

"Hospice is when you decide to stop giving medical treatment to somebody, and they spend their final days in peace."

So that's what Father meant by sending Mom off to *die*. Hospice was admitting that she *couldn't be saved* - hope was dead and reduced to rubble - and Father, bullheaded to the bitter end, would *never* stop believing that Mom wouldn't pass on to the afterlife.

Which also meant that Mom... was *going* to *die*.

Her death was *inevitable*.

The moments we spent with her in this bleached room, right here, right now, could very well be her final hours alive. With us. Not seeing, not feeling, but being with the people she loved the most.

Dread bubbled and flooded my stomach and lungs. I knew what was going to happen. Mom would stop breathing, overwhelmed by the mucus and lupus. She'd *die*.

I was going to *lose* my *mother*.

And I couldn't break the news to Father, who was struggling to manage his sanity, struggling to confess that Mom was about to leave us permanently. That he'd be broken, and I'd be broken. Broken together.

We just had to wait for the minute, the seconds to come. For death to come. I thought of Mom's final gift to me - my *Aether and Light* box.

Light. Where I needed a light, I needed one now. Where had the light gone? It had slipped through my fingers, vanishing into dust and nothingness.

It had *abandoned* us when we had *desperately* yearned for it.

The fifth and final day came too fast for me, and I recall it near picture-perfectly. We came to the hospital and trudged into the ICU, into Mom's room.

Mom's machines had ceased to function, and only one machine was still beeping - her heart monitor. It appeared the rest had been disconnected.

Mom was at her thinnest. Her skin had lost its color. Her honey-brown hair hung limply at her sides. Her eyes were unmoving, the cerulean-blue forever faded.

Her hands were crossed over her stomach. Her chest's attempts to claw for air were growing fickle by the minute. It wasn't rising.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

*Beep*. *Beep*. *Beep*. *Beep*.

Minutes ticked by.

The clock handle struck 6:37.

Mom's chest rose to the highest it had ever been.

Then it sunk for the last time.

*Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep*.

Her heart monitor went dead.

Our hearts went dead.

The room went dead.

The bleached *dungeon* of the hospital had went dead.

*Mom had died*.

"***NO***!" Father screamed, eyes fluttering open, and he fell onto Mom's body, sobbing, wailing, pleading for her to come back. For her heart monitor to magically restart and revive her, pray for Yahweh to revive her and heal her, release her of her burdens.

There was no beep. There was no stir, no sultry, sweet voice, a loving murmur, a gentle touch.

That was gone *forever*.

Father's love of *many* married years was *gone*.

As he sobbed, I leaned into him, hugging him and casting a glance at Mom's body. I touched her side, ripping my hand away when cold grazed the palm, unceremoniously confirming that Mom had met her demise.

Mom was *gone*.

Panic set in. No, no, *no*. I just lost my mother. It was inevitable. The nurses said she'd die. It was imminent, but it came too soon, when I was hardly prepared...

It was so *sudden*.

Mom had died in a *week*. What was a harmless, skimpy night at dinner turned into a life or death, fight or flight, now or never battle that seemed promising. We were delusional to believe Mom would win this.

Mom was going to die regardless. Her body was damaged from *years* of lupus. Her immune system was *damaged*, unable to safeguard from pneumonia.

I didn't have a *mother*.

Suddenly, I broke down, wailing alongside Father, and my cries pierced my ears, but I refused to stop. I *couldn't*.

I held Mom's wrist. Cold. Apathetic. Empty.

I let it go for the last time, burying myself into Father firmly.

How could Mom be gone? I thought we were forever... I thought she'd stay for many more inspiring years...

Mom was *gone*. *Gone* for *good*. Up with the *spirits*. Up with the *sky*. The *heavens*.

The gaping heavens where she promised she'd be.

*Mom, come back! Please come back! You can't leave me and dad alone! I don't want to be alone... please...*

Why was I begging for a lost cause? Mom was gone. Why was I denying it?

Because I loved Mom *infinitely* like I had said, loyal to her, and now, without her... the world wouldn't be the same.

Death and its sickle had claimed *Mom*. The person who for years loved me, infused her gift, her protection, her wisdom, into my soul, sang to me when I was frightened of lightning storms and fearful of Father. When I feared Father would disown me for the family reunion, and she sung to me that she'd be in the stars, watching over me.

Mom was the person who *guided me*, led me to follow the Milky Way. Mom made me *flourish*.

The guilt of not living every day like it was our last - something I had *resolved to do* a year ago - struck me hard and tore the hole in my heart wider. I *failed*.

I didn't live up to my promise. I failed Mom.

We *had* to spend all of our time together, as much as we could... because no one knows when the dawn will bring us death.

No one can know. Death is the unexpected playing card in the deck that decides the fate of the game. Death claimed Mom at her most vulnerable and most scared...

We couldn't *do* anything. We were powerless.

Powerless as the nurses pulled a light blue tarp over Mom's body.

Powerless as they gave me and Father condolences for the loss.

Powerless as they wheeled her body out.

Powerless as we drove home.

In my eyes, the house was colorless, and everything was black and white. The flowers, wilting and decaying. The kitchen, lifeless. The photos on the wire, blurred.

The life was *gone*.

Father and I didn't interact with each other, soulless body on soulless body. I went to my room, diving haphazardly into my bed and crawling under my sheets.

Forget dinner. Forget anything. I was *alone*. Father was *alone*.

I was alone with the beautiful box Mom had Saul craft for me before her death.

My fingers scraped the delicate silver markings until I fell asleep, the only thoughts in my head of Mom and her love that I'd never feel again.

The next day, I woke up, bright and early, expecting the smell of pancakes, the smell of spice, mindless chatter in the kitchen, and Mom kissing me on the forehead and wishing me luck for school.

But when I stepped out, the real world smashed right into my body. Foolish Winterlyn.

Mom was *dead*. She wasn't in the house. There were no fresh homemade pancakes, or morning kisses, or spices, or a voice of honey and song.

It was just me... and Father. Father was silenced, incorporeal hands around his mouth, and his chestnut eyes were hazy. He was far from blind, but his pupils were clouded and gray.

I knew why, and the ability of knowing *why* we were silent, unmotivated, and tense made me want to hurl the crunchy cereal I was pouring into a bowl into the wall.

In Jewish families, a funeral for the dead was held in twenty-four hours *after* the person had passed.

Mom's funeral was *today*.

After school.

I didn't want to attend... I didn't have any eulogy planned. I didn't know how to act, what to think, what to *feel*. I couldn't drop my guard at school, or everyone would figure out the tragedy, badger me with questions, and then would come the crisis, the shattering, the breakdown under a thousand eyes.

Skipping school was not in the agenda, however. Mom would have *wanted* me to be tenacious. To go on with a brave face. And so, I did, rejecting Father's idea that I could take a day or two off, and persevered through teachings made grittier and words made muffled by Mom's death.

Nobody knew that a young girl in a crowd of blank faces had lost her mother.

A hell of a lot of my school didn't know my name.

They didn't know of what had happened to the McCormick family.

By the end of the school day, it was time for the funeral, and Father and I quietly got into the car for the long drive to synagogue. Once a short drive, it felt painful and lumpy going to the Holy Place when Mom would not be there, sitting on the wooden benches, giving me reassurances through Rabbi Kealer's homilies, telling Father off for being nosy.

There'd be none of that. No more. All gone. Days lost to time.

For the funeral, to protect my head (because we're still warding off ill omens?), Father made me wear a veil that draped over the front of my face. Usually, I'd have the strength to chide him for ridiculous nonsense as the veil, but I just didn't have the heart.

At the synagogue, everyone was dressed in formal, dark clothing, and Rabbi Kealer was in dark robes as well. The Preslies ran up to us, hugging me and Father.

"Oh, Winterlyn, Edwin... we're so sorry. Lorelei was so young, so beautiful..." Remi murmured.

"Me and Remi just want you to know that you aren't going to suffer through this alone," Beasley said assuringly, patting me on my shoulder and hugging Father. "We'll provide support in any possible way we can."

"Thanks, friends," Father choked out through his grief.

Remi went to the nearest table and handed me a basket, items hidden underneath a silky purple cloth. Lifting it, I discovered a plush dog and boxes of chocolate and cookies.

"Winterlyn, we can't *imagine* what you're thinking right now, losing your mother... we are *so* sorry. No child like you deserves to be going through this."

I rubbed my bleary eyes, gripping the basket in my right hand. "T-Thanks, Remi..."

"Oh, come here, sweet angel." She and Beasley pulled me into an embrace, which I reciprocated. This should have comforted me, but I felt nothing but hollow touch.

I had grief to address when this was all over. The burdens of losing Mom.

The funeral was at the top of the list for the moment.

A surprised face pushed through the early synagogue crowds, the hair from her youth shorter and curled at her edges, her gray eyes in mourning and sympathetic to me.

"Abigail?" I gasped, in disbelief that she seemed so *eager* to speak with me after years...

"Winterlyn, hey... I know we haven't talked in years, and this is awkward. But, I wanna tell you that I heard about your mom dying. I'm *so* sorry... I couldn't bear the thought of losing one of my own parents."

Abigail *cared* for me. Didn't see that one coming... but I didn't know how to react.

I didn't respond.

"Sorry if I'm getting into personal business... but I'll never forget when your mom bought us Godiva as a Rosh Hashinah treat. We *loved* that present... I'm so sorry, Winterlyn."

She hugged me, but seeing the vacancy and lethargy in my movements, she made it quick and moved to her parents.

Afterward, the McCormicks and the Falins arrived through the wooden doors, in front Mom's siblings: Aunt Debbie and Bonnie and Uncle Willie, the latter of whom looked visibly stressed. That flight from Texas took its toll on him alongside Mom's death.

We hugged. Light words were exchanged, and they sat down.

Next followed Mom's parents, Grandma Krystine and Grandpa Pierre, way older now and walking with a cane and roller, respectively, and they had a difficult time perceiving me and Father. They were stabbed directly in the hearts by the death of their beloved daughter, who'd they supported in her battle against lupus, and to see her lose would be something they'd live out the rest of their days with: pain.

After my grandparents were Father's siblings, Aunt Jodie and Uncle Barry. Uncle Lewis was obviously not present for obvious reasons that I'm not naming because you already know them.

Aunt Jodie was one to gossip and wear her *Not Now Sweetie* shirts and complain about every fault, but that was not her today. She was genuinely upset, dabbing tears at the corner of her eyes and leaning into her brothers. Uncle Barry was crestfallen, thinking of when his wife, Sheila, had rejected him and disgraced him for the birth of Fanny, a child too many for her unstable mind.

And last were my cousins, taller, aged up, and more mature than the last I saw them. Steph, now twenty-two and as tall as Aunt Jodie, wearing a leather jacket over a black shirt, clasping the hand of Brody, now fifteen, as his head lolled onto her shoulderblade.

Almost to Brody's height was Fanny, now ten, her hair loose and unkempt, and she sobbed, unable to be comforted.

We took our seats, with me next to Father, and I stared as my lap as Rabbi Kealer went on and on for *way too long* about sentimental subjects, Mom's importance, and us banding together to cherish the old memories and to move forward from the new.

As we spoke, a procession of synagogue staff held Mom's coffin, carrying it through the isles. It was carved from polished pine wood and smelled of pine (sol). We stared at it, tense, and I heard the weeping of my grandparents and the shift of their walkers against the ground.

The top was then propped open, and I gagged upon seeing Mom's cleaned body, her hands folded on her stomach, her hair preened. The interior was scattered with the petals of Pacific bleeding hearts.

Mom's *favorite* flower.

"It's perfect..." Father murmured, sniffing with sorrow-slit eyes, and I realized that he had made all of the arrangements *himself*.

Father had done this *himself*. The hardest mission of his whole *life*.

Respect reared in my heart for him, and I gave a subtle nod. We may not have the occassion to speak proper words now, Father, but thank you for giving Mom the most beautiful funeral she could have asked for without a final will or request.

One by one, everyone in the synagogue filed up to Rabbi Kealer's podium, papers in hand. Eulogies. I didn't have one, but I knew I was going to be last.

Father and I *would* be last. We were the ones closest to Mom.

Starting with the non-family came the unfamiliars who I didn't socialize with, who gave quick two to five sentence remarks before dipping, letting the Preslies and Sanchezes go forth.

Their speeches had more of an impact - they talked about knowing Mom personally for years and how she taught them to love the environment and enjoy the simpliest parts of life, the mundane to the wild.

When everyone not running with Falin or McCormick blood had spoken, it was the family's turn to speak. Up first went my grandparents, who where shaky and had Rabbi Kealer help them read what they had written down. They discussed loving Mom's spirit and free nature, how no kerfuffle would stop her, and even when she was diagnosed with lupus, swore to fight it until her last breath, and she didn't care if she was judged differently for being so sickly.

Next were her siblings, who shared their personal experiences growing up in a household with Mom. She was the leader of the siblings, apparently, and kept them in line. She never resented Uncle Willie for moving to Texas, only telling him good-humoredly to be careful in the west, and didn't grow annoyed with Aunt Bonnie constantly throwing out everything in the fridge that was "expired."

Mom, to them, proved to be hilarious on more than one occassion, and they loved her for being herself - and for how tender she was to the world.

Following was Father's siblings. It stunned me when Aunt Jodie was actually portentious in her eulogy and didn't lob a complaint or acted haughtily toward Mom. She praised her for her grit, her unbreakable will to live, and her compassion.

Uncle Barry paraphrased what she said, understanding the loss and thinking of Sheila.

After his speech were my cousins, and they shared the joint eulogy, taking turns reading lines through Fanny's shaky, tear-laiden voice, Brody's downtempo tone, and Steph's utter seriousness with the situation.

They always saw Mom as another parental figure when they lost their real mother to the splitting screeches of divorce - she had stepped in, loving the cousins with her enormous heart. She encouraged Steph to pursue her dream of being a motorcycle engineer and to go to college, urged Brody to be the big brother Fanny needed when Steph went off to college, and for Fanny, put her on her shoulders to remind her that it was never her fault her biological mother disappeared. She was perfect and a pretty young lady. No one had the right to tell her otherwise.

Lastly, it was me and Father's turn. With me nudging Father, he hauled himself to his feet and went up to the podium, setting his eulogy papers. He glanced at Mom's body in the pine coffin, blotting his eyes with a cloth in his pocket before clearing his throat and beginning.

His speech was trembly, bumps in every sentence. Father was *weak*, stuttering and tripping over words, and as he went on, it was *very* evident that Mom's death had screwed with his mental perception.

By the sixth sentence, he was choking out the eulogy in tears, expressing how he loved Mom, and while they disagreed and he was headstrong, she taught him to appreciate the best things in the world.

The fun in the small things, the thrill of exploring Pineshadow.

And the cherry on top: having a daughter to share it all with.

I smiled, nodding at him, and my encouragement was all he needed to finish, earning applause from the synagogue.

An anxious butterfly arose in my stomach. I was the last person to speak, and I knew my speech was going to be the most monumental since I was the closest to Mom out of everyone here. No one knew her like I did - not even her parents.

Slowly, I made my way to the podium, sitting on a stool so everyone *could* see me.

God, I was talking to a crowd of around *thirty people*, and Rabbi Kealer and his ensemble of musicians to play the funeral music when I was done.

The sad music of violins and guitars, mourning a tomorrow that never came.

Sighing, I composed myself, brushing my veil aside so I could read.

Everyone was drawn to me, and I was *anxious* as *hell*. I didn't want to slip up and humiliate myself *and* humiliate Father, who had already been through *enough* that week.

Clearing a lump in my throat I somehow didn't realize was present, I faced the crowd and began ad-libbing to the best of my ability.

"It's been difficult for me to speak these words as they come to me... there hasn't been time for me to be prepared for *this*. I'm motherless. My mother is not with me anymore, and it feels like yesterday that she was at her healthiest, kissing me goodbye as I went off to school."

Solid opening. Everyone was listening.

"You might dispute it, but Mom was the closest to me. Fact is, we *were* forever. Mother and daughter. She was always sick, but she didn't step down from that fight. She didn't let lupus overtake her until she had gotten sick and mauled by pneumonia. Her whole life was dedicated to being the *best person* she could *ever possibly be* to us. To the *world*.

"Mom was full of passion, a divine love of the nature and the environment we call our home. From a young age, she *fostered* curiosity in me, and while that got me in trouble and some decent scoldings from my father, her work has paid off, and nature is my comfort place. My home away from home..."

I imagined the buzzing of insects and the chirps of birdsong in the Piney Woods, serenity washing over me briefly, which convinced me to go on. The lights of hundreds of eyes were glued to me in quiet reverence.

"In her final days before her death, Mom advised me to be myself. To not let people dictate my actions, to let my heart be my guide. Today, I stand here, knowing that I must honor her for *all* that she's done for me in my nine years of life. I may be small, unknowing of how to react to the outside world, and I may drift away from strangers... but mom valued me for *who* I was when others didn't."

Father looked up at me, knowing I had just indirectly called him out for his treatment of me based off the Torah's statements.

"When I'm in a rainstorm, sinking in a flash flood, Mom would tell me to float to the surface, cling to the scrap of life I have. When the dark overwhelms me, to keep that ember in my heart *roaring*, cultivate a *flame*. When the thunder shakes the ground, to grow my wings and fly to heights *unreached*.

"Together, mom and I embarked on adventures, to the shores of the California beach, to the edge of woods, to mini forests, where she'd teach me about the birds we hold dear. She had a love of hummingbirds, and there's one I now realize is etched in our doorframe. She loved gardening, bees, and her patches of Pacific bleeding hearts. She loved cooking and made the *best* meals to eat..."

I realized that my ad-libbed eulogy was *easing* the ache I felt in my chest, the scratchiness in my lungs. I didn't feel like I had failed Mom anymore.

I *didn't* disappoint her, no.

I was here, giving my eulogy, at synagogue, a place I had fault with, but a place I had connected to friends with - at her lighthearted behest.

I had met amazing people. The Preslies and Abigail were the most notable.

I'd embraced nature. I'd made connections at a young age. I'd spat at my fears and let in change. I'd cut my hair, discovered I was a lesbian, and discovered just how I wanted my body and my future to grow and adapt.

Mom would be *proud* of me. I knew from the beating of my heart, the beating rivaling a hummingbird's own, that I *succeeded*.

"One of mom's remarkable achievements was that she had a lovely singing voice, and when I was little, she'd sing this lullaby to me. She promised me that when she was no longer here, she'd be up in the stars, granting me protection from afar. The stars were her friends... and they are mine, too."

I hoped there were millions of stars shining in my eyes when I said that line. Father must have seen them, as he nodded his firm approval.

The end of my eulogy was nearing. I just had a few more things to say - and *reveal*.

Mom's bold streak was seizing me.

"I said it in my speech, and for a second time, I'll repeat it: Mom encouraged me to *be myself*. Which meant that when I felt the tuggings and yearnings to... *change*. To *evolve*! A hatchling leaving the nest, finding out *who* she wants to be. I've done things and accomplished things *none* of you will ever believe - even you, dad. But as I stand here, I know that mom is witnessing this - and she is overjoyed at the choices I've made!"

There was no outcry, no tomato throwing, no backlash, as I *ripped* the veil off my head and *showcased* my shaved side of my head to the synagogue.

At the *holiest* of *holy places*, I had done what pre-Mom's death Father would have tackled me to the *ground* for.

Expressing what the "average" Jewish woman would *not* do - *cut her hair*.

Father, shocked, stared at me openmouthed, having not expecting me to tear off the veil with so much happiness and determination. Yet, he didn't scold me or start yelling.

He was *dumbfounded*.

The rest of the synagogue, not for long, was *applauding*. *Hollering* over my decision, my statement - and *accepting it*.

Father had been proven wrong by *thunderous* praise. I was a child that could *never* be kept in the lines.

I wanted to bathe in this *awe* forever. This *wonder*. This *free expression*.

I had an eulogy to finish, so silencing the crowd, I wrapped things up.

"I wish I could spend the rest of my life with my mom, and it's a bullet shot to the heart thinking about how she'll never have the opportunity to see me grow up and discover the parts of myself locked away for years. She leaves behind a loving family, a loyal daughter, a strong-willed, but loving husband-" (Father was still staring at me openmouthed) "-and family who loved her, cherished her, and shared pride with her, all the way...

"Mom is up with the stars now, belonging with Yahweh and the spirits of the past. Someday, we'll be reunited in the grace of the moon's light. For now, I'll find her with the stars and in my dreams, comforted by the fact that she has raised me with nothing but love, passion, and care. My mom will be missed, but she will *always* be in my heart."

Clapping echoed throughout the synagogue, even Father's, and he shut his mouth, though his eyes were giving me a *what was that you did* look.

I had definitely crossed a lot of boundaries now at the risk of pissing everybody off, including Father, but I think I had done myself a huge favor - to critical acclaim.

However, one part of my eulogy was missing, and just as my eye caught the musical ensemble, I raised my left hand, stopping them abruptly.

"Before the session starts playing the music... I request for a song of my own to be played."

The synagogue went silent. Father, knowing what was coming, tensed and shrunk into the bench.

"I would like *Ghost Spores* by Varien, please. It's a song about remembrance and finding solace."

Rabbi Kealer nodded his approval, so did the Preslies, and thanks to a spare speaker in the back corner, sweet folk and breaks reverberated off the synagogue walls, the stained glass, and through our ears. Some even sang along to Laura Brehm's verses.

Father had just given up on acting shocked by how *explosive* my eulogy was.

Mom's funeral was bittersweet. Bitter, because this was my official farewell to her and accepting that was gone, letting her go into afterlife and joining the stars.

But sweet, too, because I got to honor her, showcase what she had helped me earn, and establish that we were *forever* connected between our worlds, afterlife and real life.

Mom would always be with me, in my heart, in my spirit, whatever I chose to do with my life.

Time would move in a circle to prove it. Yes, Laura Brehm, I agree.

After the funeral processions and the subsequent burial of Mom in a graveyard decked out with ripe pink bleeding hearts, Father and I returned to the confines of home, and serrated edges immediately clawed the edges of my stomach.

Home. Where we'd expect to see Mom napping in her beach chair, reading a Montgomery Ward catalog, tending to her garden, tidying the kitchen, making sure no dust got on the photo wire.

We had come back to *silence*.

A slap in the face to remind us that Mom was *dead*, her presence never to be felt in the house *again*.

The color of the synagogue and its stained glass made it seem far more special than the gray of my own house.

Picture it like this: you see a black and white photo from the 1930s. Apply it to my vision. *That* is what the house appeared like.

Bleak. Gray. Lifeless. Without Mom, it wasn't *home*.

Father had disappeared, and I heard the *click* of the door shutting. He had retreated to his room.

Leaving me here to think about Mom. To think about what we had.

That close bond we shared in the garden, the kitchen, the front yard...

*Gone*. A relic of the past. I sniffed, the facade I had put on in synagogue tearing at the seams.

Mom was *gone*. I heard something rattle, something move, and I'd think that Mom had miraculously come back to hug me, tell me she was worried, that she was okay.

I was deluding myself. Stupid girl. Mom was *dead*. You weren't going to get your mother back by letting your imagination slip.

I was trying to chase a ghost. Spores of a ghost. This wasn't *Ghost Spores*. *Ghost Spores* was a song, not an event playing out in real time.

Mom was not back from the dead. People don't come back once they're dead.

Mom wasn't going to be in the *house* anymore. It wasn't *home* without *Mom*.

I felt something scratch my neck - the white diamond necklace Mom had purchased for me.

*Two hundred dollars* from *Hot Topic*. One of her most precious gifts for me...

One of the sole traces of her...

My eyes stung; out came the tears, dripping down my flushing cheeks. I ran to my bedroom, crying, but in silence. I picked up the box from where it stood on my nightstand.

Mom's *second* personal gift to me. The *Aether and Light* etchings glistened with the golden light of the room, and hugging the box to me, minding the necklace around my neck too, I cried.

Mom's last gifts for me, so *sacred*. So *special*.

She'd known *exactly* that they were *meant* for me, *known* of my urgings to be a creative, unmatched girl with a knack to be *rebellious*.

These were her *laurels*. Her praise of me. Her *spores*. Maybe *Ghost Spores* was actually legitimate.

Either way, I sobbed, holding onto the box like it was a baby, and not letting go of it, so lost in my own world I didn't hear Father lightly calling for me.

"Winterlyn? Winterlyn?"

He creaked open the door to my room, seeing me tucked into a ball with the box, cheeks red.

"Oh, baby..." he whispered, taking a seat beside me. I faced the box, my bottom lip twitching.

"That box is very beautiful."

"It's the last gift she ever gave me," I croaked, rubbing my nose with arm and sniffing, blinking away stinging tears.

"I know, Winterlyn," Father replied somberly, grazing my shoulder and scooting closer to me.

I still didn't face him, marred with fear of the future. I didn't know how to go on without Mom. The house wasn't the same without Mom.

And without Mom... I didn't know how I was going to be able to rally against Father on my own and let him have me do what I did best: be myself.

Would *anything* ever be the same? The silence hung heavy, but not for long, as my emotions forced their way out of my mouth.

"Things aren't going to be the same..." I stated, trailing off, squeezing the box with my life. Father's chestnut eyes turned to me, filled with doubt, but also tries of reassurance.

No words came out of his mouth. He was bone dry, only trying to calm me with a half-smile. It wasn't working.

"I miss mom," I admitted, my voice cracking. "I want mom to come back. It's not fair... it's not the *same* without her... something just feels so *wrong*..."

Father put a hand on my shoulder, softening and sensing the immense heartbreak we were both feeling at once. "I agree with you, honey... the earth can be cruel. I miss your mother just as much as you do - and going forward, it is going to be hard to adapt to this new environment. I have to learn how to function as a single parent and your sole guardian..."

That made me wail, chucking me into even deeper of a pit. I had *one parent* now, and it was the parent I had been back-and-forth with.

Father had messed up many, many times, and didn't always learn from his mistakes. He didn't easily learn that tampering with religious verses and then trying to apply it to his own daughter was a recipe bound to backfire, especially with someone with a temper like mine. He was pigheaded and prone to angering in seconds.

He loved me, yeah, but he wasn't the parent I imagined being *stuck* with for the rest of my life as my *sole guardian*.

I needed Mom more than I ever needed Mom.

"Winterlyn, sssh. I'm here, honey. I'm not going to leave you." Father hugged me before pulling away and sighing, wrinkles on his forehead and under his eyes, which were outlined in purple and baggy. Father hadn't gotten sleep for *days*.

A *week*. He had spent every hour of the night worrying for Mom. Fearing she'd die. And that came true.

"You know, when I first met Lorelei, I didn't believe I'd fall in love with her," he confessed, using his turn to stare at his lap while I stared at him, the box resting idly in my lap. "Eventually I knew that it was meant to be. Lorelei was my fallen comet. She had passion, talent in everything she did. A boundless love of nature, reading, and decorating. The brightest blue eyes that were the gentle lap of the Pacfic's waves against the coastline, so bright that at night, you could see the stars in them... and your mother had *quite* the personality that I see in you. You're more of a hothead, like me, but also like your mother, soft, unabashed, proud, nature-loving... so much more..."

I looked up at him, my heels dragging themselves along the bedframe.

"Your mother and I clashed over a lot of things, and I know you've unfortunately had to be a witness to that. We had differing ideals, and I was more of the one to go guns ablazing. Your mom was a peacemaker. But your mom always captured my heart, and losing her has made me lose half of myself..."

His voice cracked at *myself*, and tears splashed down the sides of his face. He held his head with his hands, sharply inhaling, then exhaling.

Father had sensed the emotional decay in the house, sensed something was amiss. He, too, felt incomplete without Mom.

There was a vacant hole, a black hole into space, left behind. And it could not be paved over without Mom.

"I hope mom is watching us from the stars like she promised," I said, mustering some courage to speak. The stars were outside, climbing into their places to provide the night with splotches of light. Did that mean Mom had aligned with friends up there and was watching over us?

"I'm sure she is," Father asserted. "Lorelei would be proud of you, Winterlyn, for how far you've come. You're just nine, and you have knowledge and perspective, sharp tools to use for the young mindset..."

"Yeah..." I agreed, trailing off and staring at her box. The *final* gift.

There would be no more gifts from Mom. We'd have nothing to carry on her *legacy*.

Her legacy was to be forgotten by us, moved on like she'd never even *existed*. How could we be that *heartless*?

I sniffed some more, my face heating up at the edges. All that Mom had done for us, *fought* for us, *defied* for us, would be *pointless*.

*Fruitless*.

I sobbed.

"Winterlyn, what's wrong?" Father prompted me, rubbing my backside in an effort to calm me.

I spluttered out the words, glass shards lodged my throat, and it *burned*.

"Dad... we don't have any way to carry on mom's legacy. She's done so much for us, and we have *nothing*! *Nothing* to honor what she's done... the house doesn't even *feel* like home without mom... it haunts me."

Father's facial features contorted in pain, but also sympathy - he was on level turf with me. We both were. We were family members pushed together in grieving of the person we loved the most.

"Baby, I'm sorry... I'm sure we can find a way to honor Lorelei. There *has* to be... she did present herself with a *lot* of stuff, for a lack of better words."

What way? How was Mom to be honored? Through an object? There was my necklace and the *Aether and Light* box, but... those were *me* things. They reflected me more than Mom, their traces of her being gifts she sunk her time, money, and effort into for me.

Mom loved gardening, and photography, and nature... many things in those fields could honor her and carry her provisions onto the next generation.

Passing the torch to one worthy of succeeding the queen.

A match flickered to life in my head.

Lightbulb.

"Dad... I have to ask you something."

"Yes, Winterlyn?" he prompted me, steady and loosening his shoulders.

"You need to carry on mom's legacy. You *have* to! She's left behind a *plethora* of things for us. A *world*! If she were still here, she'd want us to live every day remembering what she brought to us. What made us *special*..."

Father blushed, flustered at the proposal, his chestnut eyes wide with the element of surprise. He hadn't seen *that* coming from me. Had I made him see ghosts?

"I... Winterlyn, I..."

He clamped his mouth shut, and dejection speared me in the lungs.

Father *didn't* want to carry on Mom's legacy. He was being *Father*.

Refusing to listen when I *needed* him to listen above anything else.

Blood sizzled in my ears as I let out an ear-piercing sob, grabbing onto the flotsam floating in the middle of the sea - the one parent I had remaining, alive, and hugged him as if he was going to be killed in front of me.

"*Dad*!" I pleaded, the plea turning into a wail. "*Please*! You have to! Please don't push me away... please don't forget what made us *strong*! You're my *only parent*, and you have to *care* for me! You can't be lost in your grief for mom and forget that I *need you*. I need you more than *anything else* in my *damn life*!"

He didn't acknowledge the curse that had flown out of my mouth, out of my distress, out of all the pain that was shredding my mourning heart. Father was too stunned to respond, the area around his eyes red from tears.

"Mom would have wanted you to take the best leap forward for the family. We're broken, dad. We're *both* broken, and scarred, and trying to cope with losing the person we *loved*. Mom's legacy can't be stored in the basement where it can't be seen again..."

"I know," he whispered faintly, and it barely seemed like his lips parted at all.

"And," I continued, stifling the staggering pain and contractions in my heart, "I'm not asking you to *become* mom, dad! You two were vastly different, and I'm not going to ask you to *change* and force you to bend over backwards to *be* her. You can't be *that*. The most I ask of you is this: will you pick up on what she left *behind*? Pick up the pieces, mend what's shattered, and make new memories?"

Father was taken aback, casting his eyes at the wall and to the other wall. "I... I still don't know what to say, or do... I'm sorry, Winterlyn... I'm trying my best..."

I hugged him harder than I had ever hugged him. "Dad, a start would be tending to her garden. Taking pictures with the Polaroid. Exploring. Just being *ourselves*. Having the feeling of being *alive*. You remember that, right?"

Father nodded, the right side of his lips forming a smile. "I do..."

"Then will you do it?"

"I will," he vowed. "I'll do my best to continue what Lorelei established in her years with us."

He scooted away from me all of a sudden, staring at the wall, his thoughts eating him. I didn't know what he was thinking, but the gap between us was a chasm.

I didn't want Father to push me away, and momentarily, I worried that he had thought about my eulogy at synagogue, how *atypical* it had been of me, an average Jewish girl, to break several norms *especially* in a time of mourning.

I was flagrant, but was I disrespectful? Oh lord, here came the bile in my stomach. My breathing tensed, my windpipe closing, tears streaming.

"Dad..."

Father turned to me, his mouth curving into an o when he saw me on the fringes of a breakdown.

"Dad, please don't shove me away! I'm... I'm sorry for what I did at synagogue, okay? I just thought... mom would have wanted me to do it, it's just-"

"Winterlyn, why are you apologizing for that? I'm not angry. Shocked that you did what you did... but not angry. C'mere, ssh... daddy's here." He hugged me, embraced me, putting his chin on my shoulder.

Warmth deluged in us, but it wasn't enough for the cold edge of doubt to bat it away from me. I sobbed, again and again.

"Don't abandon me, dad! *Please*!"

"Winterlyn, I'd never do that! Why would you think I would? I love you!" Father replied, puzzled, but he didn't know what I had been holding in for months. *Months*.

My secrets. I was gay. Lesbian. One of my passions was kissing girls in my dreams. Girls were attractive. I was a tomboy. I willingly wanted my head to be half-shaved. I wanted short hair. I didn't believe in my own religion. My gods were animal spirits and a transgender musician. Yahweh was a corny folktale. Abraham and Moses did not exist.

*All* of this and *more*. I had lied to him for months. I had *disobeyed* the Torah for months. I didn't *listen* to him.

I wasn't the girl he *wanted* me to be. I focused on *myself*, not what he desired.

I had broken the *rules*.

It surged up, dizzying me, and I gripped Father so tightly I could have left *marks* on his skin. I sobbed, wailed, screeched, and finally, I snapped.

What I had hidden - not all - came *rushing* from my mouth before I even put a cap on it.

"Winterlyn, please, why would you believe-"

"**Because you hate it when I don't obey your morals**!" I spat, my eyes on literal fire from the tears that just kept falling nonstop. Whoever screwed waterfalls into my eyes, go to hell.

"*What*?" Father questioned, acting oblivious to what he had done to me.

"Stop playing *dumb* with me, dad! You *yell* at me when I complain about people who are *terrible* human beings! You brand everything I say "slander!" You don't let me dress how *I want*! You hate emo people for *expressing themselves*! You hate people who won't even put *stupid ideas* in my head! You *wouldn't let me cut my hair* because of your **beliefs**! What were you **trying to do to me**? Prevent me from saying anything *you* disagreed with?"

Father, gasping, had his color leak out of his eyes. I'd struck a *nerve*, but he wasn't furious.

This Father was *stupidifed*.

"Winterlyn, *no*! I didn't mean it like *that*!" he begged. "I'd **never** stop you from learning to grow. **Never**! I'd be a horrible father if I chained you to the floor your whole life... I... I just wanted to keep you safe..."

"You **WEREN'T** keeping me **safe**!" I growled, hiding my face in his shirt, hastily adding, "I'm not even *connected* to Judaism the way *you are*. Okay! I *said it*, dad! I'm not like you and I *don't* want to be like you! I found my interests, and I found someone I *can* relate to. Varien. And you tried to take him *away*! Aren't you just going to push *me* away now that I admitted to being *different*? When I *need you*?"

Father went soft as one of Mom's old, knitted blankets, placing me onto his lap and wiping away the tears. He put the box, which had been resting five inches away from me, next to him, touching the silver snowfalls on the sides.

Then he put his hands around my back, allowing me to rest on his body.

"Oh, baby... you have it wrong... I'd *never* disown you for *not* following the Torah. I understand now that I was too harsh on you and *way* too demanding. I... admit. I *did* twist what was written... I *feared* for you, Winterlyn. You've just... you've had several times in your youth where you *almost died*! And I couldn't bear the thought of *losing you*!"

Father was sobbing, and he put a hand on my neck, squeezing it as he weeped. I tapped him, reminding him that he was applying too much pressure, and he took his hand off.

I whimpered, feeling like I was getting *somewhere* with Father, but not onto his level of thinking. We'd struggled to see each other eye-to-eye because of our beliefs - he was Jewish and I *formerly* Jewish, now an athiest and a stubborn one.

"Is there anything you want to confide to me?" Father asked lightly, shifting on the bed, and I slid off him and to his side.

The religious side of me, the one I'd rejected to embrace athiesm, was bitter. Had it brought me something to enjoy? Yes. I couldn't deny that.

But Father had besmirched it. *Tainted* it. I didn't *enjoy* being Jewish, not when the Torah was so strict, forbade me from kissing girls, something Father was unaware of and would remain unaware of, forbade me from the basic expressions I craved, and defined me as a *woman*. A woman who's goal was to marry and carry on the family *legacy*.

I wanted to *create* my own legacy, and spoiler, *it didn't involve Judaism*.

Synagogue was *cool*, and I had friends in the Preslies, possibly Abigail if the funeral service was a rekindling of what we had as little girls. But the homilies were out of touch with me.

I learned nothing from them. Love our neighbors, blah blah blah. *Okay*. I learned this stuff in *school*.

I didn't *care*.

Synagogue was empty. It was just a place I had to go to. Like school. It wasn't a place where I got Cinnabon for free. It wasn't a place with any magic, not a forest, not a winter wonderland.

And now, with Mom dead... how *could* I go back there, to the place where I saw her *dead body* and depression?

I had accomplished freeing myself of what Father wanted hidden. There was nothing in synagogue for me.

Something pushed the sentence out from my brain. *I* forced it out.

"I don't want to go to synagogue anymore."

Father froze, stiffening, unprepared for his own *daughter* to even *suggest* that she disliked the Holy Place. I feared that I had just gave him the *ultimate* reason to reject me and toss me onto the street.

"Winterlyn... you don't want to go back to synagogue?"

"*No*! There isn't anything *there* for me, dad! It's just... it's just not the same, without mom, and last I was there... we were giving her a *funeral service*. It's... really making my head hurt..."

"But, you have the Preslies, and-"

"*Dad*!" I wailed. "I did what I had to do in synagogue. I showed them who I *really* was. The you that *you* wanted me to *hide*! I have *nothing* against the people there... but I don't *fit*. I'm struggling to connect to my own heritage... I don't see the *value*. Synagogue doesn't... it doesn't *affect me* how it affects you. I don't want to go back and *force* myself to be a jester to things I *don't* entertain..."

Father sighed for Varien knows how many times that night, an arm wrapping around my waistline and another around the box.

"Wow... I didn't expect you to have the bravery to say these things to me, Winterlyn. But believe it or not... I was *exactly* like you in my youth."

I raised an eyebrow at once. Father had alluded to this before, but he hadn't given me the full story. He answered this notion a second later.

"Lorelei urged me not to tell you until later in your life because she had a feeling you'd have a grudge against me for a *long* time. I suppose I should explain..."

I gave Father no response, which was his permission to start.

"In my youth... the way me and my siblings were raised was *strict*. *Hardcore*. I was pushed to the brink of *running away*..."

*Bombshell*.

"Huh??" Hold up, Father wanted to *run away* in his *youth*? Due to *religion*? What the *hell* had happened in the decades before my birth?

"Yes, I know it's hard to believe that religion almost forced me to flee from my home. All of my siblings wanted to run away. It was *torture*. And your grandma was *very* strict. She bashed us if we strayed from Yahweh's morals, didn't love him, and didn't dress modestly. Jodie always complained and got grounded every week, screamed at, spanked. Me and Barry strived to prove to our mother that we were *good children*."

"What about you-know-who?" I asked, referring to Uncle Lewis.

"He... was neglected by her. Was a daddy's boy, but he was troubled by his mother ignoring him. Anywho, things were relatively *okay*, but soon, our mother was forcing us to read Torah pages every day, to recite them, and to swear how much we loved the Lord at every turn. If we didn't do so, we got yelled at. I got tired of this lifestyle fast and begged my mom to stop..."

"She didn't listen to you?" I figured.

"No, your grandmother did not," Father concurred. "She warned me to stop being disrespectful. Then, in my teenage years, I got my first crush. Her name was Enid, and she had fluffy black hair and skin bright as a sunlit leaf."

Surprise, Father's first love wasn't Mom. It was a high school sweetheart.

"My siblings loved Enid and hoped we'd end up together. However... mom disapproved because Enid wasn't Jewish and wasn't fond of God. If I dated Enid, she'd disown me, so I had no choice but to keep things platonic. I slowly realized from there that mom was going too far, and being Jewish was my achilles' heel. I wanted to *stop* being Jewish. I *wanted* to escape... I wanted to *be* somewhere where I could be *free*."

My eyes widened. It turns out that Father and I *did* have a lot in common when we were young. A parent, pressuring us into religion, and us wanting to escape it to be ourselves. Things made much more sense...

"So what did you do?" I questioned.

"When I turned eighteen, I moved out of mom's house and stopped talking to her. I was free from her shadow, free of having to unhealthily worship Yahweh. Upon freeing myself... I could worship him in a more gentle matter, and seek his counsel without a household in ruins. My siblings felt the same way. Your grandma didn't like people who *weren't* Jewish, and I yearned to be someone who still was a man of faith, but one who went his own way...

"So I embraced Judaism in *my own way*... no more spending five hours reading through the Torah, no more excess worshippings, no spankings and scoldings. And not long after, I met your mother, who was also Jewish. I didn't fully abandon my mom's ways, though; some of her teachings *were* really important, and I still hold those values today."

I bit back a response, but I moved just a *little* closer to Father.

"Winterlyn, I understand your concerns and where you're coming from. You felt pressured and you felt ashamed because I was too... too *brutal* on you. You're just a child and don't deserve that kind of treatment... and I know it's hard for me to fess up to when I'm wrong. I'm *sorry*. I'm *so* sorry. I understand how you feel and I know I messed up... I will do anything to atone and make things right with you. *Anything*."

"I understand, dad," I stated, picking up his hand, bigger than mine. Father had been through what *he* had put me through: overbearing religious authority.

He was crushed like he had crushed me. He wasn't himself, and I wasn't myself.

We were both so akin to each other, even if we didn't share the same sentiment.

Great minds thought alike...

"Thanks for listening to me... I was scared to tell you about this for *ages*. I thought you would reject me..."

"That's on me. I'm sorry, Winterlyn," Father apologized, pulling me in for a hug and kissing me on the forehead. "I know I excused my grip by saying it was to *protect you*. And that's the partial truth. I did what I did because I didn't want you to *have* the childhood I *had* growing up. When you were little, I almost *lost you* several times. It made me *insecure*. I wanted you to be protected and with your family no matter what, but I pushed it and hurt you instead. I gave you a slice of my childhood when you shouldn't have had to experience *any* of it..."

He stopped, then looked at me directly in the eyes.

"I take back every scolding I ever lent to you, Winterlyn, my beautiful daughter. You *are* wonderful. You *are* special, and you don't need the Torah to *stand out*. While I still want you to understand that religion isn't just something you can make vanish with a snap of your fingers, and while I always want you to remember your roots and the ancestors that blessed your birth, as well as *some* of their standards to ensure no sin... you are *my everything*. Here, in this room, right now, you are *still* my everything, and more than ever, I *need you* as you *need me*. We need *each other*... and I may mess up, and fail, and judge. But I *will* be here as your parent. Your *father*. I won't let you grow up alone. We won't go to synagogue if you don't want to. I promise."

At his words, I smiled and laughed, compelled to meet his chestnut eyes now, which shimmered with a new resolve. Someone should have given me a mirror so I could check my own eyes, for they were a sunlight-glistened lake of ice-blue, I knew it in my heart.

Who knows about the wind that's coming for us

"Do you seriously mean that, dad?" I asked hopefully, pressing my thumbs together, and Father's response was to sweep me up in a hug, but it was uneven, and we landed on our backs with a thump.

"*Yes*!" he proclaimed. "You're my *daughter* and the person I love *endlessly*. If that devil *tore* you away or *tainted* your purity and tricked me into giving you up... if I ever *failed you* as a father again, I would *never* forgive myself. Winterlyn, without you... I'd be *lost*."

About the flames turning to fire

And there I had it. Father, despite his flaws and his past mistakes, had made it his plan to *atone* to me. To be a Father with a fresh coat of paint.

To be my *guardian*, my *protector*, and my *dad*.

To be my parent when Mom had passed on, joining the Great Blue Yonder and the Great Starry Blanket.

About the whispers that we hear

I could feel the adrenaline sliding in my veins, the rush of wielding something *powerful*, but sweet and chocolate-y, the warmth of the *passion* heating the room.

I wasn't going to be *alone*, not *ever*.

Father was my hope now. Without Father, who *was* I?

I'd be lost. I'd be *gone*. I'd be *helpless*.

Father was *everything* to me, more than he had *ever* been prior.

Together, we could be inhale the will to be alive. We could *breathe* the open air. We could *connect* the dots and *still* have more to connect.

But we wouldn't do it without each other.

Oh, together

We should stay together

Like the click of a chain locking into place, of a switch giving light to a room, of the call of the firefly that illuminates the night, Father and I stuck together, and what we did over the next few months thrust us into the steady drum of *healing*.

There was a galaxy for us to explore, hand-in-hand. They say a gift of a mother's love is everything, but the tenacity of a father's love could never be underestimated.

Nights were spent loitering for an hour or two more at Steak N' Shake, slurping down those milkshakes, two for two or one sundae for us to split. Whip cream splattered our lips, eliciting laughs from each of us.

And we're taking a road that's been given

We're taking the best we can find

At the mall, we'd sit side-by-side at the AMC theater and watched movies until we had fallen asleep of boredom or had eaten through the whole popcorn bag. I flicked popcorn at Father, tempting him, and he flicked it back at me.

We'd play tag in the center court, rimming the fountain, much to the chagrin of the security guards, who just gave up Paul Blarting and screamed at the children who attempted to shoplift from Pandora for the hundreth time.

The nights also brought us into barren, grassy fields, where'd we lay together, goggling at the Great Starry Blanket.

I'm leaving what I won't be missing

We're leaving these stories behind, oh

My mind eased from the grief and regret centered around Mom's death to powering on, never forgetting what made us the McCormicks, but also teaching myself that life could go on, that the grays can be washed away and scribbled out with healing, time, and care.

And love from a parent, that being Father, who seemed to be gaining my interest of the stars.

Outside, we played, throwing the frisbee in our front yard and at Pinelake Park, where I could climb up trees and bounce around the woodchips, hair flopping about in the autumn breeze.

And we wait till the weather gets better

We wait long enough 'cause I know

My heart will follow you

What was fall became winter, a season of cold and snow, and Father and I laughed, landing in white sheets and building snowmen and lobbing snowballs until frostbite was about to bite our fingers clean off.

I was blushing from the chill, and Father was smiling, *happier* than I'd ever seen him. He was *living*.

Father, welcome to what it is to be *alive*. To see the true flavor and wonder of the *world* at your disposal. To *breathe*.

It was drugs, crack cocaine, that made him do things Beta Father would have *never even considered doing*.

Without you

I'm lost

When we went to the mall one day, we stopped in front of *Hot Topic*. The *emo store* he *loathed*.

"Wanna go in?" he asked harmlessly, seamlessly forgetting that he hated the company and didn't want me around their people.

"*Hell* yeah," I said, testing the waters of our relationship. No rebuke for the swearing. No scolding as I asked for several posters for my room, of Varien and her discography, and he bought it *without hesitation*.

Without you

I'm lost

This was some serious-body snatching. Not even body-snatching, *change*. Father was *learning*, and *improving*, and *being* the Father I *needed*.

It made me run *free* now that the caged bird in me could be let out, be emancipated.

Father and I drove around Pineshadow, exploring new areas. In honor of Mom, we snapped photos and interacted with nature. Father did get attacked by spiders and bitey-bugs, and I broke out with lumps, but it was all worth it to see hummingbirds, deer, and even a stray fox.

*Freedom*. Oh, the freedom, I say!

Oh, sweet, *sweet* freedom. Were you seeing this, Mom? *Tell me* you were seeing this.

New shades of our personalities emerged as well. Who could've convinced me that Father had a childish side to him as he chased me around the park, played board games with me in my bedroom, and spent too long in every section at Barnes & Noble just to spite the staff in the evening?

We stayed in Best Buy, transfixed by the HD TVs displaying sparking flowers and vegetables and forests and animals on screens in the Magnolia Home Theater. Who wouldn't have spent time in the back section playing the guitar? Interacting with the iPods and iPhones and gadgets?

Trips to Best Buy also became trips to the Dick's Sporting Goods next door, and we'd play golf in the backrooms, guffawing at our failure to hit the golf ball up to the screen and past five feet. The clerk probably had a migraine from our endeavors.

We'd run around the track and crash around the fitness equipment, boxing the dummies and pretending to run on a treadmill, confusing many women, men, and children, who were totally persuaded that we had reached insanity.

Insanity's fun to reach when you're living life to its *fullest*.

Days were passed burrowed in pillow forts to escape the winter, watching movies with hot chocolate (I burned my poor tongue more times than I can count to one hundred in a sitting), laughing at bad comedy, letting Father tell stories of his youth of Grandma Anny's wackadoodle craziness and sharing memories of Mom.

Thinking about Mom now... was less painful than it ever was. We missed her, and we always would, but we had taught ourselves to stick together.

*Death* could not part us. In this house, in the McCormick family, there was no such thing as may death do us part.

Who knows if I am all that you remеmber

I know (you know) I loved you more than I havе ever

Nights passed, cold, winter nights where for just a few minutes, we'd stargaze on the porch, and when the weather was mild enough, in patches of grass. Father would guide me to the constellations, where my animal deities and hopefully, *hopefully* - Mom was watching.

Hi, Mom. If you were up there, I just want you know that I love you more than I have ever.

We'd flee to Barnes & Noble, grab some Starbucks, and sit by the fountain at the mall, relaxing under the night and the awnings with the rustles of the leaves and the holler of gleeful young children with chocolate-chip smeared smiles.

All this time, Father had been carrying on what Mom had graced us when she departed for the spiritual realm, picking up the legacy, reminding us of Mom, and at the same time, making it our own to craft and weld.

We know (we know) that we've been seeing stars together

Those stars together

He snapped pictures of the memories we had created, detailed and blurred with the edges (jiggling a Polaroid will do that), printing out inky photos that when dried, captured what we had wanted.

*Bliss*. *Serenity*. *Awe*. *Fun*.

*Memories*.

Memories were happy and stacked up with elation, but that didn't partition the melancholy. Life can't be lived without the sadness.

At my request, Father took a photo of when I visited Mom's grave for the first time after her burial, planting a Pacific bleeding heart by it. Photo taken.

It was *perfect*. Depressing, but *perfect*.

Without you

I'm lost

Soon, we had encountered a minor problem: the kitchen wire had overflowed with pictures and couldn't store any more without turning into a hoarder's collection. We needed a backup plan.

Said problem was solved when Father found an untouched scrapbook of Mom's that she never got around to using. Minor memories were stored in there, taped down with starry stickers bought for a dollar at OfficeMax, while *major* memories, I decided, went into my box.

My *precious* box. Mom's gift. Where the memories on the kitchen wire, hung like birds, would stay, close to me, personal. *No one* could have these photos but *me*.

The memories kept flooding, and flooding, and flooding. So be it! Father and I were fulfilling Mom's wishes, fulfilling our *wishes*.

We were *together*. We were *forever*.

Without you

I'm lost

One evening, Father announced that he had wanted to take me to somewhere I had never been before. For spring break, we had planned on going to Heartbeat Point, but because of Mom's death, those plans were postponed indefinitely - it wouldn't be the same without Mom there. Therefore, Father had decided to put on the map a new, special place I had never visited - it was necessary for us to go on this *excursion*.

"Where are we going, dad?"

"You'll see, Winterlyn," he teased with a wink, and off we went.

The sun set behind the lush, dense Washington forest and mountains, tinting everything pink, gold, purple, plum, and orange, and silhouettes arose from their graves to take form when the night fell.

It was fifteen minutes later that we pulled into a dirt parking space and stepped out. I gasped, the sparking blue-purple *expanse* captivating me on the *spot*.

We had ventured to a place known as Rye Lake, a tiny lake in a forest copse, and there was a pier that jutted out onto the rippling surface. Tiny ripples creased the top, fish eager to be fed, though we didn't carry any food on us.

Something about Rye Lake was ringing a *bell* in me. I couldn't pick out what it was, but I had a feeling someone mentioned it before...

Father led me to the edge, where we sat down, the sun continuing to set, and he held my hand, sighing and casting his eyes out across the calm waters.

"This place is very *spesh* to me," he admitted, using the short version of special. "Do you want to know why?"

"Yeah?" This place was buzzing, ringing something in my ears. Just *what* was it?

"This was where I took your mother on our first date. I fished here with your grandfather, and the first fish I ever caught from the lake was a green sunfish."

*Bingo*. The candlelight flickered to a tiny flame in my brain. Yes, I remember in the hospital, Father mentioned his first date with Mom at Rye Lake, and she said it was a time to be *alive*.

I agreed with Mom. Rye Lake was an *exceptional* place. Relaxing, secluded, just for the two of us to bond and reflect...

We'd healed so much from the death the dawn brought. We'd come together, embracing what we had found in ourselves: love, perseverance, and our *relationship*.

Once, our relationship had been based off overprotectiveness, religious scriptures, and bull versus bull. Now, we'd mended in the face of death and knew one thing about ourselves that was crystal clear.

We were *forever*. I would never lose Father, and he would never lose me.

Oh we've been seeing stars together

I just know we are forever

A stranger approached us, a young man who appeared to have finished up an evening fishing trip.

"Awww, you guys are adorable," he noted.

"Thanks!" we stated in unison, giggling, and I poked dad. "Hey, get the Polaroid. Savor the moment while it lasts."

Father had my idea and beckoned for the stranger, giving him the Polaroid and some quiet instruction.

We faced the lake and heard a *snap*.

I just know we are forever

The memory of Rye Lake was permament, stored in a photo that was tucked safe in my sacred, magic-laden box.

Father and I had accomplished heights not achieved by a McCormick before.

Isn't it crazy how death can be catastrophic, yet can also bring a quarreling family together?

Father was my *only* parent, and we had made the most of our relationship.

We'd *soared*. We were one.

We knew we were going to be *forever*.

Spring had come when the winter snows and harsh cold had died away and thawed, and the flowers bloomed all around Pineshadow. Fever was in the air, and so was allergies (sneezing, sneezing, one two three). Mom's bleeding hearts grew abundant in the garden, as did her crops, which Father kept growing, studying an online gardening manual (we sure love technology) and cultivating from there.

I was ten years old, still in fourth grade, but having grown a little. I had my first taste of puberty, and my voice had deepened just a bit. My hair had also grown back out again, and my head didn't appear so shaved anymore. That's something I'll talk about in a little bit.

What springtime also brought as a surprise present wasn't just the flowers and the greenery and the blooms, but Varien's second album, *My Prayers Have Become Ghosts*.

Oh man was *MPHBG* something. It was *heavy*.

*Heavy*. *Random*. *Dark*.

In one of the biggest one-eighties to *Ancient & Arcane*, the album's theming was centered around darkness and heavy tracks with little hints of positivity. Here's a quick rundown of each:

*Lest We Resign to Oblivion* - funeral home music. Dang it, this would have also been a good choice for Mom's funeral, but *Ghost Spores* sufficed.

*Dawn Will Bring Us Death* - you guys can figure that one out. Who has no house now, he will never...

*TEVA833* - apparently, if bipolar disorder was a song.

*My Prayers Have Become Ghosts* - god, I'm so emo.

*The Pink Killing Floor* - did someone die in the making of this?

*Hear, Smith of Heavens* - Varien can make funeral music.

*The Pink Killing Floor (Radio Edit)* - who else died making this?

My favorite song from the album is the title track. It's heavy and not in any ways like *Snowlight* or the songs preceding it, but heavy is *fine* when made by Varien. She just makes it work either way.

I was in stupor when Father got the album on the day of its release, since the cover art is literally art of a *devil ghost*. Father would have snapped it in half if he was his old self, telling me that I should not be listening to such a sinful artist.

He knew a lot more about Varien than he did when our relationship was strained. But he still didn't know that Varien was transgender, and I didn't want to push my luck.

You never knew what could lurk beneath those chestnut eyes.

Speaking of Father, he'd been up to something, as I quickly happened to find him holding a brown *handle* in his hands on the sofa.

"Uh, what's that?" I questioned, hands behind my back.

"It's a pocket knife."

Wait a minute... *what*?

Father saw my confusion, and he pressed a button on the brown wood. *Boing*, out came a silver blade that had just been polished, its edges jagged.

"Saul gave this to me and carved my initials in the bottom," Father clarified, showing the bottom of the handle, where *EM* was engraved in silver. "He gave me the knife because he wanted me to have a suitable method of protecting you. This thing is a last resort and will go into the throat of *any* person who puts you in harm's way."

Father had a *weapon* now. A *weapon*. I was a tiny bit nervous, knowing that if mishandled, a weapon could be dangerous. It could cause *damage*. It could *kill*.

But I chided myself for being silly. Father had *changed*. He wouldn't dare use that knife on *me*. He'd use it to protect me.

I see years in the future that my thoughts aged like spoiled milk. Ugh.

"Thanks, dad," I told him, confident he'd protect me with all his heart.

I made me way to my room, where I picked up a thin, gray-backed object and tapped on it, opening a screen full of apps.

I had finally gotten my first phone, as since I was ten, Father felt that I was ready to brave the wilderness of the *internet*.

I could download video games, go to websites (he didn't want me going to Twitter, which was understandable, but I was allowed to visit Facebook and Instagram), watch videos on YouTube, and discover the joys of searching for Varien content without having to worry that Father could find out.

Infinite lesbian searches, here I went.

In addition, Varien had shared more pictures of herself on the internet, and *lord*, she was *so pretty* with her short hair.

Shining in all that mood light, eyelashes well defined... I'd kill to be in her place.

Was it honestly a shock that I had wanted to cut my hair again because of an artist? Make that two nickels, three even, if we count Varien's early influences before Rihanna came into play.

It was one day, one afternoon, when Father had gone shopping and I was left to hold down the fort (the perks of being ten) that I wandered into the bathroom and studied my twin in the glass.

Oh *damn*, my entire shaved side had grown back. I'd reverted to Before Rihanna-haircut Winterlyn.

It was *long*, unkempt, and needed a trim.

However... it wasn't as simple as to ask Father to cut it short, the way I preferred it and *desired* for it to be... that man still had his religious morals, and he'd lose his temper if I forced him to do it.

Mom was dead, but Mom *would* want me to follow my heart and use it to pursue survival...

*Lightbulb*.

If no one was going to cut my hair... *then I was going to do it myself*.

I knew just who would help me.

Speeding to my bedroom, I picked up a photo of Varien I had printed with Father's permission, him being blissfully unaware of Varien's feminine-presenting self, and pinned it to the mirror.

I picked up the scissors and plugged in the shaver just in case. I knew what I was going for.

Not to copy Varien, but to have a *style* like hers. That tomboy flair, right-in-between look. Feminine-presenting, but not *too* masculine.

Ladies and gentlemen, the art of being gender-neutral.

As soon as the first strand had been snipped off and fell to the floor, I knew there was no turning myself around.

I swear thirty minutes passed as I submerged myself into snipping my long hair - this time, on both sides, shorter, and shorter, and shorter, brushing it out, and shaving at the edges. Two strands flopped over my forehead, and many loose strands trailed on my backside. I had a solution for that in the form of a faded red tie in the drawer.

I slid it up around the strands, forming a bob end. I stared in the mirror, liking what my twin was rocking.

Short-cropped hair, a bob end tied back, and strands hanging over my eye. Oooh *yeah*.

Just a few more strands needed to be snipped, and then I'd be done.

Unbeknownst to me, I hadn't heard the *click* of the door slamming closed, the sound of bags hitting the floor, the *tap tap tap* of footsteps.

I didn't hear the whistling, innocent as can be, as I snipped off a few ends hanging off the top strands. I was just about to snip the last one when the door opened to the bathroom.

I whipped around, back pinned to the sink, scissors in my right hand. *Father* was in the *doorway*.

"Winterlyn, what are you doing-"

He looked at the floor, noticing the clumps of sandy-brown hair that I had purposefully cut off. I dropped my arms, revealing just exactly what I had done.

He gasped.

"No! Your *head*!" He ran up to me, seeing that I had clean shaved off *both sides*. "Winterlyn, what have you *done*?"

*He's not angry, just shocked,* I told myself, but I still let out a gasp of my own and shielded my face with my hands.

Father looked around me, at the clumps on the floor, at the scissors, at the shaver. I was praying to *hell* that he was not seeing the photograph of Varien on the mirror.

"Winterlyn, why did you do this? The Torah says... I... I don't understand..." he demanded, scratching the top of his head.

Swiftly, I moved over so that I hid the photograph of Varien with my arm. Okay, Father was not mad. He was confused. Baffled.

He didn't know of my motivations for cutting my hair for a *second time*. I looked less like a girl and more *neutral*, my intended appearance, but Father wanted me to *be* the girl.

Who said rules couldn't be broken?

"I wanted to honor the deed Mom did shaving my hair a while ago," I lied, catching my breath. "So I wanted to cut my hair myself... I'm sorry, I just... I *wanted* my hair short..."

I scrunched my eyes closed, expecting Father to go ballistic on me, to drop bombs, to *explode* and have me pinned to the floor of the bathroom for committing *sin*.

Jewish women don't have short hair. Jewish women don't look like men. Jewish women weren't gay. Jewish women-

Without warning, I felt two strong arms pull me into Father, and blinking, I discovered that he was *hugging me*.

*Tightly*.

He *accepted* my style.

"Darling... I know I may not always understand *or* agree with your decisions, and with your hair, it's still shocking to me that you *want* it to be short. But I know I can't stop your heart and can't force you to change when you *don't* want to."

"Really?"

"You are a *very* bold thinker, just like your mother... but I *won't* reject you for your hairstyle, Winterlyn. Keep it. It would be in the will of Yahweh anyway, as he blessed your half-shaved haircut before. I'll let you finish up... and let's make this a worthwhile memory."

No words could have brought me more excitement than that. I went back to work, and Father captured my fine-tuning with one snap, the Varien photo landing in it without his knowledge.

Hell yeah. The photo went into my box.

It's strange how death made Father a whole new person, a reinvented, more kind, more *amazing* man... and one willing to step up and be the parent and role model when Mom died.

Death can do some insane things.

Laura Brehm, is this what you meant by *eternal return* in *Ghost Spores*? I think I found my eternal return.

And it was breaking barriers thanks to the help of the reaper's sickle.

Death is a bleak, harrowing, and suffocating reality of life that is strange and hard to comprehend. It befuddles me still to this day that death brought me and Father together when it should have made us heartbroken and forever divided.

It's not easy to recover from death, and it's not something you sleep off like the movies portray.

To this day, I miss Mom, and my heart aches for her. I'm convinced she was watching me and Father as we evolved, grew, and understood our faults and what we needed to change.

I wish Mom and I could have spent more of our time together. But you can't change the past, only your future.

Time is precious, and not a grain of it must be wasted. That clock is ticking, ticking, ticking, and if not used wisely, will lead to more pain than joyous virtue.

Although we struggled to get back on our feet, Mom's death led to a new chapter of our lives - one would Father would have to adapt to being a lone parent, and one where I'd have to adapt to *having* one parent, one person to lean on until I could manage all on my own.

Father was my *everything*. I don't know where I'd be today without him and what he's done, the ugly and the *wonderful*. He influenced me, held onto me, and shared my love of the stars and late night milkshakes, even letting me cut my hair, something he thought was taboo long ago in a distant land.

He changed. He learned. He thrived.

Without him, I'd be lost.

And without the next person that would play a role in my life, I wouldn't have gotten to where I am today.

*She* was more of a catalyst of change than anything.

*She* was *dynamite*.

And under Father's nose, *she* led me astray into a world unseen by even me.

## Cast

* **Mae Whitman** as Winter
	+ **Hala Finley** as young Winter
* **Jim Pirri** as Edwin
* **Cozi Zuehlsdorff** as Lorelei
* **Kimberly Brooks** as female nurses
* **Kevin Michael Richardson** as Dr. Dee
* **Irene Bedard** as Ms. Smallbison
* **Timothy Olyphant** as Saul
* **Fred Tatasciore** as male nurse, Rye Lake visitor
* **Lauren Graham** as Remi
* **Richard White** as Beasley
* **Xochitl Gomez** as Abigail

## Songs

* Puppet - *To Be Alive* (ft. Aaron Richards)
* TwoThirds - *Breathe*
* LVTHER - *Dots* (ft. Jenny Broke the Window)
* Varien (ft. Laura Brehm) - *Ghost Spores* (snippet)
* Feint - *Starseed* (ft. Leah Rye)

## Trivia

* *Dawn Will Bring Us Death* is named after a song by Varien of the same name, which Winter does mention near the end of the chapter.
* Due to Winter hitting puberty for the first time at the end of the chapter, her voice starts to deepen and deviate away from her childish pitch. As such, this is the last chapter in which Hala Finley partially voices her; Mae Whitman takes over fully from this point onward.
* *Dawn Will Bring Us Death* is dedicated to Av's mother, who was diagnosed with breast cancer in April 2023 and received treatment when the chapter was in production. She notes that her mother having cancer made Lorelei's scenes, as well as Lorelei's death, "far more impactful than they were before."
* What Winter quotes in the beginning is *Kamisama* by Varien.
* A recurring theme in the chapter is Winter titling random events, such as her fights with her father.
* It is revealed that:
	+ Winter got her hair cut on her ninth birthday.
	+ After Winter cut her hair, tensions in the family relaxed, and her father stopped trying to make her obey the Torah at every twist and turn. However, he did make her wear a hat to synagogue, believing that others would find her semi-shaved head an ill omen.
	+ Winter frequently worried for her mother in the winter season, as she developed violent lupus flareups and was left weak, chronically exhausted, and sometimes unable to even eat. She even feared she'd die, knowing lupus symptoms progressively worsened with age.
	+ Winter was a mommy's girl and spent much time alone with her mother, strengthening her connection with her. Her mother was also the first person to officially take her into Hot Topic.
	+ Lorelei was the one to officially introduce hummingbirds, Winter's spirit animal, to her. This later helps her realize the bird engraved in her door is a hummingbird.
	+ Winter's signature diamond necklace originated from Hot Topic, designed as a result of a collaboration with Earthbound Trading Company. Her mother purchased it as a gift despite the hefty price tag, wanting Winter to rebel even more from her father's preachings. Because the necklace is her mother's second-to-last gift to her, Winter finds it sacred.
	+ Winter enjoyed tending to her mother's garden, briefly repelled from it after being stung by a yellowjacket, but returning once her mother taught her that she had nothing to fear outside.
	+ Winter's mother told her that she'd talk with her father about a return to Heartbeat Point. However, due to the circumstances surrounding Edwin's family and Lorelei herself dying in the fall, the trip to Heartbeat Point was scrapped.
	+ The box where Winter stores her memories was purchased from Tuesday Morning. It was later given carved silver etchings by Saul, mirroring the Varien song *Aether and Light*, and was planned to be Winter's tenth birthday gift. However, knowing in the hospital that she was dying and wouldn't live to see her daughter's birthday, Lorelei had it given to Winter early, making it the final gift she received from her mother.
	+ Winter's paternal grandmother, Anny, fell into bad health near the end of summer and died. Ultimately, this made Winter realize the true extent of death and pushed her to see the better person her father truly was deep down in his heart.
	+ The mother of Winter's cousins is named Sheila, and she divorced Barry after Fanny's birth, supposedly pushed over the edge of her mental stability at having a third child to raise. Because of this, Fanny had believed she caused the divorce, but she was comforted by Lorelei.
	+ During a chilly autumn season, sicknesses spread en masse in Pineshadow. Both Winter and her father became sick with what they initially thought to be a cold, when in actuality, it was pneumonia. The pneumonia subsequently infected Lorelei, though she did not inform the two of them that she was ill and concealed it, likely wanting to not horrify them.
		- Just as Winter and her father began to get better, the sickness blossomed in Lorelei, and combined with her lupus, made her almost go into cardiac arrest right in front of them. Both Edwin and Winter, despite their horror, acted fast and swiftly got her rushed to the emergency room.
	+ Even in the hospital, Lorelei already knew that she was going to die and had naturally accepted her fate, using the last of her strength to encourage Winter to follow her heart and her own beliefs.
	+ Lorelei's funeral was held a day after her death, arranged by Edwin.
	+ Lorelei was the brains of her siblings and acted as a maternal figure to Winter's cousins, encouraging them to be themselves and to chase their dreams.
	+ Winter's semi-shaved haircut was widely accepted by Harmony Hollow.
	+ Winter's father took up the job of carrying on Lorelei's legacy at the insistence of Winter, doing the things she enjoyed and using her Polaroid to continue capturing memories.
	+ Following Lorelei's death, Winter refused to go back to synagogue, and her father accepted her request.
	+ Part of the reason why Edwin was so strict was because he projected the events of his own youth onto Winter. Growing up, his mother restricted the freedoms of him and his siblings, notably neglecting Lewis and snapping at/punishing any of her children when they misbehaved. To make matters worse, Enid, the then love-interest of Edwin who was liked by his siblings, was forcibly rejected by Anny due to her not being Jewish. Things got so bad that Edwin and his siblings longed to run away, and wanting to find his own calling, Edwin moved out of the house when he was eighteen, later meeting and marrying Lorelei, who was also Jewish. While he didn't intend to project onto Winter, he truly did want to protect her, acknowledging that he screwed up and vowing to atone in any way to her.
		- He also expressed that he did connect to Winter over her feelings, admitting that he was always scared for her safety since she was little and respecting her wishes for more freedom and no longer attending synagogue. Nonetheless, he did remind her to never fully let go of being Jewish and to remember some of her ancestors' teachings.
	+ The famous *Pieces of me* photo, first shown in *Meeting Winter*, originated from Edwin taking Winter to Rye Lake, the place where he and Lorelei had their first date. A stranger took the photo of the two sitting by the shore.
	+ Edwin got his knife when Winter was ten, claiming that Saul gave it to him as a means of protecting her.
	+ Winter's desire to cut her hair for a second time was inspired by Varien, but this time, she chose to cut it herself instead of enlisting someone's help. Although she was caught by Edwin, he accepted her choice, oblivious to the fact that Varien had influenced her decision and even missing the musician's photo Winter had pinned to the bathroom mirror. He also took her lie that she wanted to honor her mother, something she says was only partially true.
* In a brief callback to *Birth of Snowlight*, Winter references Roz and *Monsters, Inc.* by nothing that her father was always watching her.
* Each sequence involving Winter and her mother are split into three parts, divided by songs. The first sequence features the Puppet song *To Be Alive*, matching its uplifting stride as Winter begins to relish in the feeling of being alive.
	+ The next sequence is more relaxed, featuring TwoThirds' song *Breathe*, as Winter relaxes in nature's comfort with her mother.
	+ The third sequence has an upbeat tempo and showcases just how deep Winter's bond with her mother has become. It features *Dots* by LVTHER, making this LVTHER's second appearance in the chapter (he was previously TwoThirds).
* Lorelei snorting that the sun will still shine in Philadelphia to Edwin is a reference to *It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia*, which he was watching before Winter got stung.
* Winter stating that her mother was "up Stuff's Creek without a paddle" is a reference to the popular phrase "Up S\*it Creek without a paddle."
* For a song to honor Lorelei at her funeral, Winter requests *Ghost Spores* - and a few seconds of the opening are heard before the transition to the next scene.
* After Edwin and Winter's heart-to-heart, the Feint song *Starseed* plays in the background and continues as they heal from Lorelei's death and spend time together. The ending of *Starseed* having sounds of lapping water also syncs up with the memory scene at Rye Lake.
	+ Furthermore, Rye Lake is named after Dutch singer Leah Rye, the vocalist on *Starseed*.
* Unlike with *The Ancient & Arcane* in *Transformations*, Winter does not play every song on *My Prayers Have Become Ghosts* when it comes out. According to Av, the album has less significance for her in comparison to *The Ancient & Arcane*, which is deeply intertwined with her character development.
* In Winter's foreshadowing for the next chapter, she mentions a girl who led her astray, obviously referring to Daniela.