That night, I put my head down on my pillow feeling quite accomplished.

And yet, for all the elation I was feeling, I knew there was something gnawing at me.

It was Papa’s funeral.

It was happening the day after tomorrow.

I put my palms over my face, inhaling and exhaling slowly to stop myself from crying again.

When the burning in my throat had subsided, I swallowed, nearly choking at the rawness of the pain.

I reached across the nightstand, and fumbled in the drawers until I found a Strepsil. I sucked on it furiously.

The scratchiness ebbed away, eventually, and I was left with a sense of sour nostalgia.

I remembered how Mama (because she was, in all essence, my mother) used to put a cool, wet lace towel on my forehead when I had a high fever.

It always felt good, and the white fabric had smelled of home and lavender.

It was useless.

The tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, fighting their way out until they were rolling down my face.

I was back to square one.