Nora is dead. Dead dead dead. The ceremony was a blur, a continuation of sobs and whimpers and cries of true sorrow. The sea of black consumed and confused me. Where is the color? Nora loved color. The reception was better. Soft white linen tablecloths with a thin stitched white plaid pattern coated the tables, draping across them and flowing off the edges like spilled milk. Red carnations stand tall in the middle of each table, a proud toddler making a gift for his parents. Uncle Donnie placed his overly large, calloused hands on my small, six year old shoulder that would later see the tears of my mother. Plopping down next to me on the light plastic folding chair that groaned under his weight, he spoke softly, asking me how I am. I murmured a response and pushed my soggy, dark green beans around my plate, my stomach contracting at the thought of allowing this unwelcome visitor into its warm, inviting home. Tall, blonde and undeniably beautiful, my mom approached our table. “I left my purse at the house. I will be right back Don.” She turned and gave me a wink, her eye crinkled and one side of her lips turning up in a smirk, like her sapphire eyes and her blush colored lips were long lost lovers, crossing the cream desert of her cheek, arms outstretched almost meeting, and yet as she walked away, her half smile dropped and though I know her tears were for Nora, I could’ve sworn the loss was shared with her eye, losing her love forever.