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Tess Canfield
In Memory

That day, I called Nora. She had just arrived back in the States and was spending two weeks home before our senior year. My studio lease was coming up at the end of the month. I had planned on renewing, but asked if she was in a similar situation. If she wanted to get an apartment together, if it wasn’t too late to find one.

The one we rented together for the year was terrible. It took days to clean it and even so, we woke to mice that had fallen into the kitchen sink. But the one we found after graduation was better, and then our third apartment in our mid-twenties in Santa Monica was downright luxurious. Granite counters, private laundry, six blocks from the beach. We had a life together, sharing secrets, crying through breakups and disappointments, celebrating each other’s promotions and wins—the sister I never had. We lived there until we were twenty-nine, when she got engaged, and I moved in with Chris and we renovated his home in Mar Vista. We get together at least one a month for dinner. Our children are friends.

Nora is here with me now. The soft pat of her palm on my forearm pulls me from my memory and brings me back to the current moment.

“Almost there,” she says, gently.

She’s driving me and my two children to my mother’s memorial back in Illinois. Chris is already there, unloading flowers, finalizing logistics. I text him and ask if Aunt Eileen has arrived yet. He tells me not to worry, and that he and Cody are taking care of everything.

We pull up to the funeral home, a monochrome beige building with a brick front, and a bit of sooty snow dripping off the sloping A-frame. I stall in the passenger seat, checking my bag for the printout of the eulogy I’ve written, then examining my mascara in the car mirror. Nora helps my daughter from her car seat, and my nine-year-old son opens my door.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” I say.

He is solemn and gentle as he reaches for my hand.

Even though she’s getting too big to be held, Nora holds my daughter on her hip, and we walk in together. The parking lot is wet from the snowmelt and it’s sunny now, warmer than anyone could hope for in early Spring.

In a few moments, I will give my mother’s eulogy. I will cry, speaking to those who are still here. I will tell them who the woman was: a mother, a grandmother, a wife, a sister, a teacher, an aunt, a swimmer, a churchgoer, and a friend. I will say that she loved us. She loved us the best she could.

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