A warm fall breeze blew over as I stood in the middle with a tangerine balled in my fist. There were four of us: dad, little brothers, and myself who stood next to one another. Toward the deceased, everyone were seemingly paying their last respect except for one—me, who was mentally bothered by the tangerine. Its scent had render a sudden clarity and alertness which as almost painful as glancing down at the black box with white flowers cover ontop of it.

I remembered every gestures mom did in our past life events. She was the kind of mother who would persistently try to hide her shaky lips above everything in front of a grumpy daughter, like me. But without even trying, I could always sense the resentful plea tinted her voice whenever I said things like, ‘Mom, orange! Orange! Orange!’...

Each portion of those memories, at this moment of time, ironically find its way projecting into a bigger picture—reminded me of the struggles when her death had finally sank in.

Irrelevent excuses and thoughts for all my wrongdoings in the past flooding in with remorse. Not knowing when it would stop, I just stared blankly upfront, trying so hard to mimic a breath as if I had forgotten how-to.

"Sis, why did you bring orange here? It smells everywhere..."

My head tilted to the side where Bogum clutched my hand. His small voice sounded so uncertain. Something in me finally snap. It was from these kind of interaction, vivid surroundings, then it all registered in our brain. The only thing we don't know is how intimidating memories are—remembering even the small details of mom and also my favourite orange could lead to every ounce of defence within me—shattered.