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These are the things Dawn remembers.
From the summer after Mom and Buffy died, she remembers long afternoons spent with Tara, companionable silence interrupted only by the sounds of ice cracking and popping and shifting as it melted in their tea. The others talked too much—especially Anya—but never Tara.
From the day Tara had driven them to the ocean, she remembers the smell of the salt water, its tang on her lips, and the sting of it in her eyes. She hadn't even known Tara could drive, didn't think she even had a license. But one day Tara had suggested they go to the beach, and she'd readily agreed. A good day surrounded by bad ones.
From Christmas, she remembers Tara giving her the fancy snow globe. She'd shaken it, watched the bits of white plastic and glitter settle on the winter scene under the glass while Tara reassured her that the breakup didn't change anything for them.
When it rains at Tara's funeral, she remembers a teacher saying water in art often symbolized baptism or re-birth. She wonders if the rain is Tara's way of telling her she is new and good and safe.
She hopes so.