THE HOSPITAL SAID MY NINE-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER WAS GONE — AND MY HUSBAND BE.GGED THEM NOT TO LET ME SEE HER. TWO WEEKS AFTER THE FU.NERAL, OUR LOYAL DOG DR.OPPED HER YELLOW CARDIGAN AT MY FEET. IT WASN’T TORN. IT SMELLED LIKE HER SHAMPOO. AND THE SLEEVES WERE STILL WET WITH PURPLE PAINT.

A paintbrush in her right hand.

Purple to the knuckles.

She turned around.

She saw me.

Her mouth fell open.

“Mom?”

I don’t remember crossing the room.

I remember her weight.

I remember her arms around my neck.

The cast knocking against my ear.

I remember the smell of her hair.

Strawberry.

I remember making a sound I’ve never made before or since.

“You’re here,” I kept saying.

“You’re here.”

“You’re here.”

“I’m here,” she said into my shoulder.

“Mom, you’re squishing me.”

I didn’t let go.

I couldn’t.

I touched her face.

Her cheeks.

Her eyelashes.

A fading yellow bruise on her forehead.

Real.

Warm.

Breathing.

“Did you get my sweater?” she said.

I nodded.

I couldn’t talk.

“I painted the sleeves,” she said.

“So you’d know it was really me.”

“Scout’s been my mailman.”

“He comes every day.”

“Daddy said I couldn’t send anything home.”

“So I didn’t tell him.”