My mother leads me towards the beach she has taken me to since I was born. She tells me how she moulded sunlight into the necklace she never takes off. My mother and I share small bodies, rounded faces and golden braids. When I was little, my mother hauled the sun out of our garage each morning. When I was little, I stood on a wooden stool, paper wings on my back, sprinkling sugar and lemon zest on pancakes I made for her. In those days I thought she would live forever. We stand at the waterfront, waves splashing against our ankles. My mother lifts a hand to the sky and twirls her fingers. She clasps my hand in hers, guiding it in circles down towards the water. The sun sinks behind the horizon. There are drops of sunlight on my fingers. My mother moulds them into a necklace and fastens it around my neck.