Irini performed the final part for all of us: stepped forward, knelt on the pavement, and, holding her skirt decent in the wind, bent and kissed Grandma’s forehead. It seemed only right–she was the one who knew Grandma best, these last days. It’s the role of daughters to move ever away from their mothers (and could there be greater distance than between those two sighing snaky-haired lumberjacks of women and this close-wrapped, completed object at our feet?), and it’s likely, isn’t it, that someone will step in and appreciate everything the daughters can’t, being so busy pushing themselves out into the world, saying, No, no, I’m not you.

Lanagan, Margo. “Perpetual Light.” Black Juice. New York, NY: Eos, 2005. 159.