It's the same as always, I'm standing outside the classroom window looking in. My mom is in her room hanging up students art work while they are at lunch. She was always so happy while she did this. Often humming some 80's song. The mood of the dream changes instantly when a gun goes off somewhere down the hall. She becomes a statue pausing for several seconds before realizing what's going on. She sinks to the floor and crawls underneath her desk. She grabs her cellphone and sends me a text. I receive the message and look at my phone screen.

"Go find dad. There are books in his office that will show you where to go. The key is in my jewelry box. I love you Wendy."

The dream continues. I'm staring through the window as a man comes into the room. He's dressed all in black and has a gun in each hand. He points one at my mother, but before the gun goes off I wake up. I always wake up.

"MOM!", I wake up in my bed. My pillow is soaked with tears and my whole body is trembling. I don't even hear my grandma walk in and rest my head on her chest. I'm still crying and I can't stop.

Grandma strokes my hair. "Wendy. shush child it was only a dream. It's over now." I pull away from her and look at the tears swelling in her dark brown eyes.

"No.", I start saying between cries. "It happened...It's real"

Morning comes as Morning does. My mother used to always say that. Morning comes as Morning does. I told myself this over and over as I lie awake hoping that morning would just go away. Hoping that I would simply go away. Today is my mom's funeral. Three months ago she died in a school shooting, but it still felt like yesterday. The pain still hadn't died down. I finished the rest of school online and now it was summer. Mom's favorite season. Everything reminded me of her. Whether it be a pair of converse, she wore them constantly, anything related to Madonna, her idol, or just pink lemonade, her favorite drink. Worst of all were her paintings. It's funny how when someone dies their artwork becomes famous. Art galleries keep calling asking to buy one of the "died to young" artist's paintings. I always hang up. I've been living with my grandparents since she died. I know they find me a burden. Whenever we visited them for the holidays my grandmother use to tell me I was too much like my mother. You'd think things would have changed since her...passing, but they haven't. My grandma is always complaining about me sulking around and crying all the time. I just lost my mother for Pete's sake! To say the least we have a very rocky relationship. I would much rather be with my dad but the last time I saw him was I was eleven, which was almost five years ago. I miss him though and mom missed him to. I wonder what I'll say when he comes back...if he comes back. Despite him being gone all the time I know the he loved my mom. She loved him too. When he left he told me he had to fulfill a promise he had made, and that once he had done that he would come back and take us somewhere special. Sometimes I dream about that too. Him coming back on his black motorcycle, taking me away from this small town full of memories. We would travel the world together. Become the Father-Daughter duo. Sometimes dreams are impossible though, sometimes...

"WENDY!"

My grandma stormed into my room already dressed and ready to go. Had I really been stalling that long? She spread open my blinds and continued nagging.

"Wendy why on Earth aren't you dressed? We have to leave in fifteen minutes!" My grandma was way to...not sad to be going to her daughter's funeral. Her eyes weren't even red her makeup perfect. I haven't worn mascara since mom died. Her hair was in a sleek bun and she was wearing a black skirt set and white gloves. She looked like she was about to meet the president or something.

"Why? It's not like they're going to start Mom's funeral without us." Great, now she's ignoring me. I slide out of bed and trudge my way over to my closet. I know for a fact that Grandma had planned a service mom would've hated. She would have wanted something happy and bright. Held outside or in one of her favorite art galleries. Instead we were going to a stuffy funeral home. I mean who actually has funerals in a funeral home? And she would not have wanted anyone to wear black. She hated the color black.

I looked into my closet and pulled out the brightest ensemble I could. A coral, sleeveless, high-low hem dress, and a bright blue beanie. The beanie was perfect because I could just slide it over my unruly black-brown curls. As I looked over my outfit I realized one thing was missing, converse. If I had planned the funeral converse would have been required. I couldn't just wear any converse though. I needed her favorite pair...from her room.

I snuck down the hall to her bedroom, knowing grandma would make me change if she saw me. I stood outside the orange painted door and it hit me. I hadn't been in here since she died. Nobody has. Morning comes as Morning does. I needed those shoes. I needed part of her with me at that funeral. I opened the door and almost lost it. I could picture her sitting on her window seat, writing in her journal. Of course 80's music would be blasting from her I pod and she wouldn't here me come in. Her honey blond, perfect curls would be falling all around her face and I would wonder how she could even see. Finally she would look up with her opening brown eyes and smile at me. Then the image was gone and I was left staring at an empty seat, crying my eyes out and longing for her to come back. It was stupid to come in here. Why did I think I could do it?

Knowing that I would probably never come back in this room I grabbed one of her baskets and started throwing her things in it like crazy. Her artsy bohemian pillows, old worn out sketchpads, pictures of me, pictures of her, pictures of dad. I could barely see through the tears clouding my vision, but I couldn't stop. It was like a bomb of emotions had gone off inside of me. All the anger and sadness had clashed and it was moving me across the room. I grabbed her journal and all her old journals. I grabbed her Carried away Bath & Body works perfume and her bright eye shadow palette. I grabbed her African quilt and her old used up paint brush collection. I grabbed her jewelry box and last but not least I grabbed her old faded white converse. I set the basket down and hugged the familiar shoes. The shoes that were plastered in paint of every color. I slid them onto my feet and fell back onto the pink fuzzy carpet. I just lied there and cried. I cried and I screamed and after what seamed like forever my grandma starting yelling for me down the hall.

"Wendy! Wendy honey where are you? Wendy it's..." she paused when she realized the door was open and I think I actually heard her sigh. An actual sigh of emotion and then I started to hear muffled cries. I heard her footsteps on the oak wood floor as she cried more freely.

"Wendy darling." she started to say between the sobs. "Why now? Why today?" obviously referring to the fact that I hadn't even thought of stepping in this room for three months.

I calmed myself down to the point that my screaming cries were soft whimpers. "I...I needed her shoes." I picked myself off the floor and ran into my Grandma's open arms. "I need her."