It has been three days since my mother died.

Three days of watching the lines in my father’s face etch more deeply; three days of red, wet kisses from aunts of all shapes and sizes; three days of tasteless casseroles delivered by curious neighbors. They all stared wonderingly at my clear eyes and calm hands.

I understand their bewilderment. What kind of daughter is stoic at her mother’s death, especially when it was so sudden and brutal?

I climb into bed, pulling the sheets up to my chin. I haven’t slept since the doorbell jolted me awake three nights ago. I remember opening my eyes and seeing the red and blue lights dance across the ceiling of my room. Now I can’t close my eyes without seeing red and blue phantoms chasing each other behind my lids.

I will myself to cry but no tears are forthcoming.

I walk to her bedroom. There is a book of poetry on the bedside table. As I open it, my eyes fall on a sentence: “Morning without you is a dwindled dawn.â€?

Finally, the tears.