Five months after she died I sat in her room. Some would say I was torturing myself, I say it had to be done. I went with my instincts and took out the musical piece that I kept from her rainbow mobile that hung over her crib. I would wind it up and play it until there were no more tears left. I sat in her room…all redone from her deep pink walls and rug and black lacquer furniture; it was totally different now…basked in earth tones and now my “study,” with her pictures all over the walls like the gallery work of some new and upcoming photographer. I went to the closet and took out her last winter jackets. One was white with a fur-trimmed hood that I bought her…she loved it. One was black with a fur-trimmed hood that was one of her last Christmas presents from Frankie, they went to the mall as they always did: she picked it out herself. She was wearing the black one the last night we went out together…on December 30th, when she had maybe forty hours left on the planet.

I took out the plastic wardrobe case that was filled with what I had sealed away…but first I went to the drawer where I had kept a box with every tooth she ever lost, along with every letter to the tooth fairy. I also had an envelope with a lock of her natural hair from her first haircut: a sandy coppery brown. I was reminded of all those sun-drenched days at the beach when one piece of her hair would blonde more than the others. Next to the first lock of hair was the last lock; that I cut myself while she was in her casket: it was reddish brown. I told her I hated her hair that color. She’d always say, “Mom! I can’t get my highlights done in rehab! I have to keep it dark!” I smelled it. I couldn’t believe it still smelled just like her hair…after everything she had been put through.

Three months had gone by before the autopsy report arrived…but here it was, in black and white: the confirmation from the medical examiner finally in my hands: “Manner of death: Accident.” “Cause of death: Heroin Toxicity.” The papers I had to prove that my daughter was dead! The blueprint and receipt for her cemetery stone, the Mass cards, her name everywhere followed by deceased, or referred to as the decedent.

But I took the black jacket and held it, hugged it, and rocked it back and forth on the couch in her room, “My baby, my baby, “I kept choking, “Please come back.” Then I moved on to her as a woman. I opened the plastic wardrobe case that I had kept in the back of her closet; it contained everything that was left on her vanity and dressers…all the remnants that were left behind never to be used, arranged, or thrown out by her ever again: her brush with her last strands of hair, the white bra thrown across her vanity that still smelled of her perfume, makeup without tops, necklaces, headbands, packs of cigarettes, store tags, and of course…her thong underwear. “Wouldn’t be caught dead ever wearing anything else,” she’d say, and she wasn’t.

By her bed was a copy of The Twelve Steps in A.A. with a bookmark at the end of Step One. She used to tell me jokingly, “My sponsor said I’m now officially on Step One.” And if anyone pissed her off who was “working the steps in the program,” she’d say, “All I know is…when he gets to the ninth step, he better make amends to me.” My daughter as a woman: I never knew a time when she wasn’t laughing, or entertaining someone else with her sarcasm and wit that made her superior. No one ever got the better of her, she was always in control, and she’d out-word you in a minute. She had her own spin and timing and punch. She was always surprisingly articulate; even eloquent as a child, but as a woman, she’d out do you in a minute.

Her face: no camera ever got a bad picture, those crystal clear undeniably green eyes( many thought they were contacts) that perfect nose that girls paid for and still didn’t get…the perfect teeth with lips just full enough…the creamy skin that could get that golden tan, and that mane of thick gorgeous hair that no one else had…and she exuded her own style…regardless of what she wore.

Still, it was my baby I lost. I cradled the black jacket in my arms like I was trying to comfort her. I thought of the people who told me I would get through this. I held the jacket in my arms knowing this is something you never get through or move past, no matter what you try to do. I just hung on to the jacket; it was frightening and cruel this utter sense of defeat, and I gave up. I could feel her body, not yet a year old in a pink terry cloth stretchie…I could even feel her diaper through it…she was so full and formed in my arms. I gave up…and let Death rock me into the afternoon.