AT EIGHTY, MAMEY seems to float more than ever on the aquamarine oceans of her past, where the sand is as pale and fine as sugar and the smell of tropical flowers lingers on the air. Her eyelids flutter as she dips in and out of dreams, sinking deeper into herself. She can’t get warm, no matter how many feather ticks and blankets I pile on. I heat a stone in the oven, her old trick, and slide it under the covers to the foot of her bed.

One day I bring her a conch from the Shell Room, its innards as pink and glistening as an inner lip. Gripping the bony conch, she tells me how she found it on a deserted beach on an expedition to Cape Horn with Captain Sam. Sand under their toes and leafy palm fronds overhead, shielding them from the sun. Siesta on a porch and grilled fish and vegetables for supper.

“Next time I’ll take you with me,” she says softly.

“I would like that,” I say.

MAMEY’S HAIR IS thin and yellowed, her skin as freckled and translucent as a meadowlark egg, her eyes searching, unfocused. Her bones are as delicate as a bird’s. Mother comes into her room every day and flits around for half an hour or so, fussing over the bedsheets and picking up soiled linens. “It pains me to look at her,” she tells me. Perching on the edge of Mamey’s bed, gazing up at the ceiling, Mother sings one of her own favorite songs, an old gospel tune she learned in church as a child:

Will there be any stars, any stars in my crown

When at evening the sun goeth down

When I wake with the blest in those

Mansions of rest

Will there be any stars in my crown?

I wonder what those stars are meant to represent. They must be proof that you are especially worthy, that you shine a little brighter than everyone else. But if you wake with the blessed in heaven, isn’t that enough? Haven’t you achieved the most you could’ve hoped for? The words seem at odds with Mother’s personality, her negligible ambitions, her lack of interest in anything beyond the point. Maybe she believes that the way she lives is the height of righteousness. Or maybe, as she’s said before, she just likes the melody.

My father comes upstairs now and then and lingers in the doorway. My brothers drift in and out, rendered speechless in the presence of such profound dissolution. But I can’t really blame them. Mamey always called my brothers “those boys” and kept a wide berth from them, while pulling me close. “Mamey, I’m here,” I murmur, stroking her arm and holding it to my cheek. Her breath on my face smells like scum on a shallow pond.

When she finally dies, it is after days of not eating and barely drinking, her skin tightening across sunken cheeks, her breathing becoming raspy and labored. I think of that poem: the Eyes around—had wrung them dry . . .

The day we bury her is dreary: a colorless sky, gray-boned trees, old sooty snow. Winter, I think, must be tired of itself. Reverend Cohen of the Cushing Baptist Church, in a eulogy at Mamey’s grave in the family cemetery, talks about how she will rejoin the ones she loved who are gone. But as I watch her pine casket descend slowly into the dirt, I try to envision the reunion of a frail eighty-year-old woman with her decades-younger husband and their three sons and am left with the lingering feeling that the places we go in our minds to find comfort have little to do with where our bodies go.