I Kissed My Wife’s Cold Forehead in the Coffin—Then I Opened Her Hand and Found a Navy Blue Button from My Brother Rodrigo’s Jacket

of wax, dead flowers, and something I could not yet name.

My mother, Teresa Armenta, stood by the fireplace in a perfect black dress, her hair pinned neatly, her lips painted a red too bright for mourning. She was not crying. She was not even pretending to.

“Where is Camila?” I asked, even though the coffin had already answered.

Teresa tilted her head continue reading …