Good night, sweetheart," he says. "Good bye, sweetheart," I say. And it's so casual, so innocent that he doesn't suspect a thing.

Tell me about yourself." "Myself?" He looks confused. "Yes," I say, patting the mattress. "You know all there is to know," he says, sitting beside me. "Not true," I say. "Where were you born? What's your favourite season? Anything." "Here. Florida," he says. "I remember a woman in a red dress with curly brown hair. Maybe she was my mother, I'm not sure. And summer. What about you?" The last part is said with a smile. He smiles so infrequently that I consider each one a trophy.

We figure out what death means when we're born, practically, and we live our whole lives in some kind of weird denial about it.

I start trying to stay unconscious. The problem with this is that no amount of willpower can change the reality.

My sisters were in that van.

Maybe it is desperation. Maybe we can't let things fall apart without trying. We can't let go of the people we love.

Fall has always been my favorite season. The time when everything bursts with its last beauty, as if nature had been saving up all year for the grand finale.