One year after the death you throw a party. they say grief needs a turn of seasons—one summer, fall, winter and spring—before the sadness lets go. If you survive the year, you celebrate. When a man dies, his wife organizes the celebration. When a woman dies, the first daughter arranges the party. If there are no daughters, the wife of the oldest living son does it. If the dead woman has no children, there is no party.

Because you are her only child, her aunt said matter-of-factly, the party is your responsibility. Don’t panic, you have almost the whole year, which is enough time. I will help you as much as I can, but the invitations must come from you, you must cook the food and ready your house. People have to see that it’s you honoring your mother’s memory. She was my sister, but she was your mother . Her aunt paused. I know we buried her just a few weeks ago, but the preparations for the one-year ceremony can take weeks, even months, which is why I am telling you now. It’s a big deal. Some people really loved your mother, and some didn’t; invite them all. Start at noon, the middle of the day is most auspicious, and go until the last guest leaves, no matter how late. There are many details of course, everything is very specific, and the specifications are ancient and, you know, important. Set up an altar with long tapered candles, flowers, photographs. Everyone sits so they can see each other when they talk about the dead. There are times to speak and times to be silent, and times for people to cry, and even a time to wail. Tell your neighbors to expect loud noises, tell them it’s part of our custom and please, do not call the police.

Heti held a pencil above a blank piece of paper. Her aunt’s voice came through the tiny holes at the bottom of her cell phone, transmitted from dozens of miles away into the whorls of her ear as she sat in her small office at the accounting agency. Her aunt went on. Flowers at every table, enough chairs, a full lunch, a full dinner, fruit, chocolate, nuts, cakes, tea, nothing preprepared or catered, it’s disrespectful. When your grandmother died, we had huge gatherings for the third-, seventh- and fortieth-day ceremonies, and by the time of the one-year anniversary, people expected a real party. Our house was so full you couldn’t find a place big enough to hold your plate up to your face to eat. I remember our hallway was so crammed I had to push past the men’s big stomachs and the women’s soft hips just to get to the bathroom. All those bodies in honor of my grandmother, all that life come together . . .

Her aunt paused and then continued. Our house smelled like cologne and perfume for days. A complete success. That’s how you do it. Open your home and make people comfortable with the right food and songs and sayings so they can think about your mother, really remember her and mourn.

There was another pause, and Heti waited for more instructions, but nothing came.

I know what you are thinking, her aunt finally muttered. This is all too old-fashioned, too much work, too much ritual. Not your responsibility.

The notepad was no longer blank. Heti had drawn a series of orbs of various sizes, at odd distances from each other. She shaded some, striped some and pockmarked a few. Perfect circles, balls, spheres adrift somewhere in her imagination. She wanted to speak but the sketching calmed her into silence and she sat quietly as her aunt went on, anger now lacing the edges of the old woman’s voice.

You can always do it your way, or their way, her aunt said. Like when Avery’s mom died. No funeral, no ceremony, they just burned the body and were done with it. If that’s good enough for my son-in-law’s mother, maybe it’s good enough for your mother, who sacrificed so much for you.