The sun was setting in Royal Oak that evening. The phone call came and went with no real movements. And by no real movements, I mean that we didn’t rush out the door. We didn’t attend a funeral. I don’t even know what cemetery she was buried in. My aunt and uncle were consolatory and seemed to be the only ones with tears. My father, I think he finally cried, but I was so confused with the whole ordeal that I didn’t know what my emotion was supposed to be. I kept looking from face to face to tell me what I was supposed to feel. My father finally said, “Don’t worry. Your mother will come back to you. In memories.” I didn’t know where the hell this place called Memories was, all I heard was that my mom was coming back. It somewhat compounded the confusion as to why some were crying so hard – rivers that seemed to wind around the table and into the kitchen – and others simply talking softly, looking back and forth from me to my sister Bebe and then talking some more. And others still laughing softly over some inside jokes. My head was spinning by the time the knock came at the door. I was always taught never to answer the door; that was the grownup’s job. This time was different. My dad had said my mommy was going to come back, so I rushed to the door and swung it open. It was not my mom. “Hi! Is Juliette home?” Darcy was a cute girl with brown, excruciating ringlets on her head, just like my cousin Juliette. I didn’t say anything, I think my arm may have involuntarily motioned upstairs, but then I collapsed in a mountain of tears. I think I may have even screamed. So many people were around me so fast. Except for my father. He stayed, head in hands, out in the living room. I would still jump and feel a spark of hope each time a knock would come upon a door for a very long time. I was six years old the day my mother died.