There hasn’t even been enough time for the dust to settle in my late mother’s bedroom when Tyler and I clear it out. It’s a living tomb of who she was: chestnut furniture purchased thirty-odd years ago from somebody’s front yard, and boxes with some missing lids stacked in peculiar disarray that create a maze of memories, both significant and utterly useless to me. But the tomb isn’t even allowed three days of rest before it’s unearthed again, the upheaval of her private space a necessity in abandoning a house that was sold while her bedsheets still smelled of that all-too-familiar thick perfume she spritzed each morning.