It’s a day like few others, for me, because I happen to remember it, and for me to know it is to be it, that evening we headed home. The oldest kids in the car could sit the furthest in the front and I was right behind mom’s seat. I was glad that I was there because long drives were often only bearable when I could lean my head and look out the window. The videos, noises and conversations could sometimes be too much and, often, not enough. My head was big, but also something that tended to be solemn and playfully creative. It was easy to imagine and meet my mind at its level, before the age I noticed that I was letting it drift too far with the waves and the undercurrent was going to take it away. I didn’t feel much that day, and the realization hit like a daze. The window was the only person who didn’t tell me how to act or laugh at the questions I asked. The window made me realize I wasn’t real. I couldn’t feel happy at funny memories, and I couldn’t feel sad if I imagined my family lying lifeless in front of me. Would I ever cry again? How deep the greyness went was always a way to get an answer, I’d guess. The first thing I felt was a pinch in my throat, a knot, but then it didn’t stop. My mom was in the seat in front of me, but she’s dead, I saw her unembodied eyes and forced myself to remember all the times she made me feel alive. I felt two tears hit my lip and I looked up at the window to see what it’d say, and its eyes were puffy, and they could taste the ocean too. The saltiness made me notice the painful crack on my bottom lip and how I should cry more because I hadn’t drunk anything since I got up. Feeling the knot made me notice the pain in my gut and I looked over at my sister, my eyes sore from focus, asleep in her sweaty stained softball jersey, while mom read about her friend that killed himself last week. I asked mom what we were having when we got home, and she grumbled “Whatever’s left in the fridge”.