It was raining when I arrived in LA, fitting since I was there for a funeral.
There was a limo driver, in a black perfectly startched uniform, waiting for me outside the terminal.He was holding a white piece of laminated cardboard with my name neatly spelled on it.

    "Ms. Davies", said the driver "I hope your flight was pleasant.So straight to your house?"

      I nodded, flashed a smile and slid into the limo, taking in the smell of leather and vanilla air freshener. The ride home was silent, nothing but raindrops and memories to keep me company. I stared out the window at the palm trees,liquor stores, buildings, just the vastness of it all. God I can’t believe it’s been seven years, I thought to myself, I lay my head back and fell asleep to the pitter patter of raindrops.I awoke just as the limo pulled into the driveway.

   "Were here," said the driver, who’s name I later found out was Vern.  "Go right on in I’ll handle your luggage" he smiled and tipped his hat.

     I stood outside my Beverly Hills home, and basked in my nostalgia. When I was 18 I vowed never to come back here, to sleep in its walls, to walk on its hardwood floors. But now I owned it, the only thing my mother ever gave to me. It’s funny how fate manages to suck you back in.

    After tipping Vern, I made my way up into my room. With a shaking hand I turned the door knob, expecting to see a fitness center or game room. To my surprise my mother kept it just as I left it. Although faded and dusty everything was exactly as it was, I chuckled, miracles do happen.

   The next day it was still raining. I went to my mothers funeral like a dutiful daughter, and found myself surrounded by family and friends that i’ve never met. I lost track of who she married, as a matter of fact the last time I had contact with my mother was two years ago when she called to tell me my father had died in a car crash, and all that was was a message on my answering machine. I slipped out during the middle of the ceremony, I just couldn’t fake caring anymore. When I was younger I craved for her attention. I use to dance around waiting for her to awknowledge me, to say hello, to say anything. Now she’s the one that needs me, she needs me to put an act on for her audience. She needs me to say that she was a wonderful, kind, and loving mother,but I wont I can’t.

   I got home after walking forty-five minutes in the rain. After taking a hot bath and changing I plopped on my bed taking in all the old yet familiar sights.I got up to turn on the radio, and as I passed by my wall collage of pictures and magazine clippings I noticed it. A yellow post-it with the words "project due in three days" scribbled in red ink.

 "Shit," I whispered, I guess you can’t escape everything.

  I grabbed the faded yellow paper off the wall and held it in my hands. I sat down still looking at it, and only one thing came to mind….Spencer Carlin. I smiled. She would leave notes around my room, random notes, to say hi, to remind me of an appointment, or in this case a project. We were happy then, life was a dream,everything was new and exciting and the whole world was our playground. Just me, her, and our love. But eventually you have to wake up. The combined pressures from her family and people at school eventually got to her, and on a clear and perfect night at Griffith Park,she said goodbye to us and our love. She drove away leaving me standing there, crying, looking down on Los Angeles in all its lights and shadows.