Her laugh was what she left me when she died. That night, windshields shone like widened eyes. Lights flicked on and doors opened all down the street. A half moon paused in a sky of aquamarine. When a spider crawls across My ceiling, I scream. But when I saw her cheeks, rubber under rouge, made up like a baby doll, I only stared. These were not the cheeks I had brushed my lips against at night before I climbed the 14 steps to my silent bed and she went back to cigarette smoke and Wheel of Fortune on the TV. She also left a note. Withdrawal written carefully- an apology in blue ink, but I know my father killed her long before her car collided with that tree.