The Things We Keep

The funeral home smelled of carnations and cheap air freshener. Mara stood by the buffet table, clutching a paper plate, watching relatives who hadn't called her mother in years pretend to grieve.

She reached for a slice of cake—a bright orange frosting that looked almost aggressive against the somber room. Her mother would have hated it. 'Funerals shouldn't have colors,' she'd say, her voice sharp and certain. 'They should be gray. Like ash.'

Outside, lightning fractured the sky. Thunder followed seconds later, shaking the windows. Someone gasped. 'She always said she'd go out with a storm,' her uncle whispered, as if this were an omen.

Mara slipped outside through the side door. She needed air, needed to escape the performative sorrow. Her mother's old dog, Bear—a wheezing golden retriever with failing hips—lay in the grass, his head on his paws. He'd been her mother's shadow for eleven years, the only being her mother had loved without condition.

She sat beside him, burying her fingers in his fur. The rain began, cold and sudden.

'I forgive you,' she whispered to the wet ground. 'I shouldn't, but I do.'

The dog lifted his head, as if understanding. Mara smoothed his wet ears.

Inside, the service continued. People would give eulogies about a woman they'd never really known. They'd talk about her generosity, her spirit—carefully curated memories, stripped sharp.

Mara pulled her mother's hat from her bag—a crushable wide-brimmed thing in cheerful yellow, ridiculous and perfect. Her mother had worn it to garden parties, to funerals, to parent-teacher conferences. She'd worn it the day she told Mara she'd never be a writer.

'Some people don't have the imagination,' she'd said, adjusting the brim. 'It's not your fault.'

Lightning struck closer. Bear whined.

Mara placed the hat on the dog's head. It nearly covered his eyes. He looked ridiculous. He looked like her mother—imposing, stubborn, inexplicably vulnerable beneath the posture.

She laughed. The sound caught in her throat, became something else.

The rain intensified. She didn't move. Bear leaned into her side, his breathing steady and slow. She thought about all the things she'd never said, all the things her mother had never heard. How love and resentment could coexist for decades, impossible to untangle. How grief was just love with nowhere to go.

The orange cake would go uneaten. The lightning would pass. The hat would dry. Bear would sleep. Tomorrow, she'd write again.