She used the bathroom, running the tap noisily and disturbing the towels. She knew immediately that her mother had bought these towels -- cream, a ridiculous color for towels -- and monogrammed -- also ridiculous, my mother thought. But then, just as quickly, she laughed at herself. She was beginning to wonder how useful her scorched-earth policy had been to her all these years. Her mother was loving if she was drunk, solid if she was vain. When was it all right to let go not only of the dead but of the living--to learn to accept?