once upon a time, my grandma had a stroke after giving birth to a stillborn in a crickety bed. she was taken not to a hospital, but to a church. there: the priest adorned her face in holy water & prayer, while her husband & eight children riverbeded around her, hoping their cries could resurrect her, like jesus. she wouldn’t wake for hours, no matter how furious rosaries were gripped or how fast promises to god were spat out. when she did rise, the priest blessed her & my family sang, loud praise all the way home. my grandma never told me of this loss & i never asked her what it meant to lose a child. but—when i touched my grandma’s hands after she died, i learned loss feels like frozen mango skin—& i know your parents will know this too, when they answer my phone call, hear about your suicide, show up to the morgue, see your choked body, try to grasp your skin for heat, but embrace a cold without sweet.
