If you recognise it, it's not mine.
You'll wake up, and instantly want to go back to sleep. The sun shines through the window, birds are singing obnoxiously loudly, and you roll over and try not to cry. Today, your dad is going to try and make pancakes, try and be all kind and loving, but with a falsely cheery air. Together, you'll go and stand next to a cold grey stone with words etched into the smooth surface, and you'll lay down your bunches of flowers- roses. It's always roses, red ones. You wish they weren't red. Pink. Yellow. White. Not red, red looks like blood, and blood makes you think of the accident. Your dad will look at you and smile, unshed tears glimmering in his eyes, and he'll caress the stone. When you get home, he'll cook lasagna, but not in the same way that she used to. He tries so hard, every year, but he gets everything so slightly wrong. It's not his fault. He is remembering her as he knew her, not by all the secret little things she told you when you were young. And that's why the hugs don't feel right, the pasta and lasagna are tasteless, the roses force you to smell a coppery liquid splattering over your face. It's not his fault. But it's not right.
This year, it's different. When you wake up, instead of burnt pancakes you smell hot coffee. Instead of birds you hear loud rap music. You get up, make your way downstairs, dressed in black, just like you have every year since it happened. Your dad turns round from talking with Carole, and he's smiling. Finn wanders through, dragging a bag behind him. They all seem so happy. Your dad's talking about some football game you're all going to see, and suddenly your heart feels crushed to the size of a pinhead. There will be no gravestone, no pancakes, no roses, no lasagna today. Instead you're going to spend the day at a football game. A bitter taste fills your mouth, and you turn and walk out of the room. You pretend to feel ill, keeping your face turned to the pillow so nobody sees the tears smudging their way down your face, and they go without you. You go to the grave, leaving a small bundle of lavender and rosemary- her favourite perfumes. The grey stone looks barren and abandoned as you walk away, missing the bright splash of red roses. You spend the rest of the day drifting aimlessly, cleaning the house, singing softly, the sad old songs from when she sang to you as a young child. You make lasagna for everyone when they get back, but apparently Finn won his game and you're all going out to celebrate. You end up squashed into a booth at Breadstix, poking at a salad while Finn eagerly describes every footstep of the game. Your dad looks at you three times. Once to ask what you want to eat and the second to tell you to stop trying to interrupt Finn. The third time he turns bright pink, and tears well up in both your eyes. You nod slowly. He tries to apologise, but Finn bursts into the conversation, retelling one of the many sprints he made for the fifth time. Your dad shakes his head, but doesn't say anything. When you get home, you sit in your room, fingers running over the sole photo you have of her. She's laughing, holding your little hand. You deliberate over pointedly leaving the photo on your dad's pillow, but eventually fall asleep, caressing the worn frame. That was the beginning of the worst week ever.
