Raw Sienna everywhere. Earth, mulch, cycles round and round again. 58. The age my grandmother died. Took a bottle of sleeping pills and went to sleep forever. Raw Sienna. Earth, mulch. The dollhouse she built, the perfect replica of her penthouse apartment in Florida. Her mouth thin as a pencil line, inked bright, ludicrous red. Fort Lauderdale smelled like fresh squeezed orange juice, but the garage of her apartment building like mystery, oil, darkness. She'd slip her Cadillac into its parking space and we'd enter that brief Hades before the elevator sprung us to the 20th floor. My mother has been writing lately about the suicide, having kept silent about it for years. Although, it wasn't the kind of thing to ask about. Raw Sienna. Earth, mulch. Like a sepia photograph, yellowed at the corners. I don't remember her as a depressed woman, but you never really know do you. I was 5, 7. Death like this couldn't possible have registered. After she died, we went through her apartment and I found a cigarette box full of pennies which my mother let me keep. The weight of that box, the sound of the coins, the dry metal smell of my hands. I don't think I will ever forget the luck of holding that treasure. It kept me loving her for years afterward. It kept me remembering.