I didn’t tend to her tomb the way I didn’t tend to my wounds. We didn’t go to the cemetery because my sister said she wasn’t there. And I believed her, or maybe I needed to. I spent years turning my head away from headstones because every one of them had my mother’s face. It was easier not to think about her. The opposite looked like too much; too wide, too dark, too permanent. So when she crossed my mind, I crossed the street. I drank. I smoked. I ran into the arms of people