A wish flickered across her mind: that her mother’s funeral had been like this. A party. A concert. A place she could imagine her mother grabbing her hands and asking her to dance, and even though her mom could be sad, and angry, and sometimes she had been so painfully uncool it made Dorry’s teeth hurt, her mother had known how to be happy. And when she was happy, it sort of radiated out, like a campfire, and could make you happy too. Yes: if her mother’s funeral had felt like remembering it was possible to be really happy—that, Dorry knew, she never would have forgotten.
