"I awoke alone in the tiny house, our solar-powered houseboat at the Burlington Marina. You had slept in the hotel room we’d taken the night before to escape from our adventure on the water—the noise of the marina, the crowds on the docks, the general party atmosphere at Waterfront Park..."

"My mother and I shared July—the fireworks, the blistering heat, the ruby birthstone. But I’d learn to celebrate my birthday without her..."

"On June 4, 2015, I was sixteen and a half—almost, minus six days. I was probably working at the store that was attached to my dance studio..."

"On that day, I, a lifelong introvert who willed myself to be an extrovert for forty weeks of the year, was mostly anxious..."

I’m dreaming that I’m awake.

"It’s the same dream; everyone is eating together..."

"Summer has arrived in Cape Town. Here, at the end of the world, the light has an ethereal quality..."

"Social media has taught me a lot about how other people see their mothers after they’ve died..."

"I’m driving my son to preschool along Fairview Road. It’s so unseasonably warm that but for the bare bone-tops of sycamores..."

"I wake readily. Motherhood made sleeping lightly a permanent accessory. No longer do I afford myself the luxury of deep sleeping..."