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At that point, ravenous for totems of our intimacy, I regretted it.
Image courtesy of Laura Selle
It is, I believe, the last photo taken of her.
Then, it was her flopsy crown whose winsome fluff obscured the severity of its purpose.
I imagined that I could hold on to her, so long as I kept her in my sights.
Remembering someone was a flawed practice, I realized almost immediately.
The only body whose endurance I could count on was my own.
For me, it is a matter of self-preservation.
My newfound interest is in many ways uncomplicated: routine is soothing in chaotic times.
In one of griefs bizarre turns, I also sought comfort in skin cares promises.
I cried and drank rose and showered, sometimes.
If I felt especially ambitious, I binge-watched Brooklyn Nine-Nine (while crying and drinking rose).
I didnt wash my face.
In the weeks after her death, family and friends sent care packages and cards.
My mothers skin, porcelain and petal-velvet, had been a point of pride.
For the first time in weeks, I washed my face.
Establishing a ritual of skin care assuaged my bone-deep craving for control.
The corporeal evidence of grief could melt away, even if its roots still clung tightly.
Gradually, I accumulated a battalion of face creams, serums, and sheet masks.
After hoarding a wagonload of freelance pennies, and conducting assiduous research, I purchased a retinol serum.
Sometimes, planning new beauty initiatives sufficed.
This was, at least, a partial distraction.
I am always thinking about my mother; she is my atmosphere, my weather.
I think, too, of that photo, her last, and through chance, ours.
Or so I suppose.
My opinions on the afterlife are unfixed and muddled.
I do not want to believe in gone.
Its superstition, I know, but its something else to hold on to.
Its a strategy, just in case it would be helpful.
I need to ensure that shell always recognize me: a daughter in the windowher daughtersearching.
Rachel Vorona Cote is a writer living in Takoma Park, MD.
She was previously a contributor at Jezebel.
Find her on Twitter at@RVoronaCote.
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