My earliest memory is bathing in rainbows.

Mama always slept with her windows open, with the curtains drawn back. The sun shed a warm rectangle on the worn carpet. I'd crawl across the floor and bask in the refractions from the colored bottles she had on her dresser. The light streaked the insides of my eyelids albicant and flavescent. I'd see cerulean, amaranthine, viridian, topaz, and a dozen other colors until I grew dizzy from such richness. Sometimes I cried a little when dusk chased the sun away.

If Mama was in a good mood, she'd laugh at my tears. "The sun will come tomorrow, Mia," she said, her fingers combing my hair. She didn't yank, as was her habit when she reeked of perfume and darker scents.

The bottles broke when she died, but my uncle brought me to the McKinley Castle and pointed out the floor-to-ceiling cross made from stained glass. If you wait until the morning, he said, you'll get your rainbows.

That's when I knew I was home.