The sorrows came for Lydia again. She named them that when she was twelve because it sounded more romantic than ‘depression’ which is what her therapist called it. It came in cycles like the tides. She’d be fine, then one morning she’d wake up and still be too tired, or she’d be about to call a friend and wonder _why bother_? Then she’d feel the sorrows seep in and slowly fill her, take away her motivation, her spark, her desires.

Lately, when the feeling came back she’d call her grandmother. There was no one on earth more alive than Gran. Gran lived the kind of life Lydia dreamed. She traveled, made her own meals and clothes, found new friends everywhere she went. There was nothing that ever weighed her down, or held her back.

Gran did it all sporting her iconic _Victory Red_ lipstick and matching red scarflette tied around her wrist. Lydia had never seen Gran without the scarflette. Even in old black and white photos of Gran, she had it tied around her wrist, and Lydia was sure it was the same one.

“Every woman should have at least one trademark fashion item Lyddie, to stand out from the crowd,” is what Mom said when Lydia asked her about it, “To be remembered.”

Needing motivation to push the sorrows back, even if only for one more day, Lydia called Gran. She didn’t answer.

Gran only lived a few minutes outside town. Popping round her home wouldn’t be an inconvenience, but Lydia couldn’t force herself to move. So she stayed prone on the couch with the tv on in the background until Mom called and told her Gran was in the hospital and wouldn’t be getting better.

Sitting next to the hospital bed, listening to the beep of the monitors, Lydia held Gran’s hand and played with the ends of the red scarflette like she had as a girl. Gran stirred and opened her eyes.

Knowing this would be the last time they spoke made it impossible to think of anything to say. Lydia blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Why do you always wear this scarf on your wrist, Gran?”

Gran’s eyes crinkled in the corner.

“To remember.”

“Not to be remembered?”

Gran shook her head what little she could. She tried to reach for the knot with her other hand but was too weak.

“Take it off, and see.”

As gentle as she could, Lydia untied the scarflette.

Two ugly scars marred Gran’s wrist. One was shorter and thin. Hesitant. The other was thick, long, and straight across. Certain.

Lydia met Gran’s eyes.

“I wear it, to remind myself that this is another day I would’ve missed if I had been successful that night. Every day is a day I’ve won back.”

After Gran’s funeral, Lydia tied the scarflette around her own wrist, as protection. When the sorrows came again, she fiddled with the ends and thought of Gran, fighting for every day she took back.