Society of Lies

by Lauren Ling Brown

I’d written about my mother the day she died: her body hooked up to machines and tubes, too thin, too ashen. When I saw her, I remember thinking how ironic it was. Thinking she’d been so worried about the things that could hurt me—plastic, unfiltered water, wet hair—that she’d forgotten to worry about herself.

The day of Naomi’s funeral, dark clouds hover overhead, and the air feels thick as paste. It’s as if my inner state is so strong it’s seeped out of my pores and into the air around us.