On the day of my funeral, I hid my favorite body parts. Buried my heart underneath a moon rock. Stuffed my eyeballs in the carved sockets of a snowman. Planted a lock of hair in the Great Barrier Reef. My mother was so sad. She ate rainbow fudge ice cream in my honor, scraping melted remnants with a spoon. I told her where she’d find my arms—woven into tree branches of the monkey exhibit at the zoo. She was the monkeys’ only winter visitor, hugging her bundled self as branches, long and bare, curled out through the cage bars.