Page 56

Xiomara
It’s hard to believe we are gathered for Luisa’s funeral. Even now, as I sit on a chapel pew between my mother and Zasha, it’s his hand that keeps me grounded. His fingers are curled gently over mine, warm and still.
The service is simple, and the pews are filled with people from every corner of her life. Old neighbors, women she used to know from various groups, and a few quiet men from my father’s world, whose eyes are unexpectedly red.
Isabel, her daughter, sits in the front row beside her father, who wears an all-black suit and the blank expression of a man who has survived a hundred gunfights but doesn’t know how to outlive love.
The altar is lined with soft white flowers. I arranged them myself yesterday — orchids, lilies, and a single cluster of pressed forget-me-nots.
Luisa’s favorite.
The scent is sweet, almost overwhelmingly so, clinging to the air like her memory, which will never fade from our minds. As the priest begins to speak, I barely register his words. And although my eyes remain on the polished wood of the coffin, my mind drifts to her laughter whenever I did something silly and to her scowl when she caught me sneaking cookies. To her lectures in the kitchen while she stirred rice, scolding me in Spanish but never really angry.
I remember the nights she’d lie beside me when I was sick, and my parents were away. She will hum lullabies until the fever breaks.
Besides my parents, she was my other safe place. Even when the rest of the world felt sharp and distant, Luisa made me feel seen. Not as a Delgado. Not as someone to be protected or shaped into something useful. Just as a girl with messy hair, too much emotion, and a habit of asking too many questions.
I blink, and my mother gently brushes her hand over my arm, a gesture of comfort that I accept without hesitation.
But it’s Zasha’s grip that steadies me. He hasn’t let go once, and I feel grateful for his strength. The priest finishes the finalblessing, and Isabel stands first, walking slowly toward the casket.
One by one, we follow.
When it’s my turn, I step forward, telling Zasha that I will like to say my final goodbye alone. The walk feels longer than it is, and my legs tremble, but I don’t stop.
In my hand, I hold some tiny pressed forget-me-nots wrapped in tissue.
Luisa used to keep a bunch of them between the pages of the books she read. Said they reminded her of her childhood, of simple things, of promises kept.
As I reach the coffin, I see her through the open lid. She looks… peaceful. Her hair has been combed back, and she is wearing her favorite earrings. Along with that same tiny smile she always had when she was waiting for me to confess something she already knew.
My throat tightens, but I lean forward, placing the flower on her chest, and whisper, “Thank you for never giving up on me.”
My hands shake as I pull back.
Zasha is already there. He wraps his arm around me without hesitation, steadying me as I turn away. I don’t break down, but I lean into him, and he holds the weight like it’s nothing.
Back at our seats, I close my eyes for a moment. The world is still turning, but something in me feels quieter now, and a little less broken.
Zasha’s hand finds mine again. This time, I lace our fingers together without thinking. And for the first time in over a week, I let myself breathe.
When we arrive home, I sit at the edge of Zasha’s bed, still wearing the black dress from the funeral. The fabric clings to my knees, heavy with the day's burdens. I remain here, staring into nothingness. My thoughts swirl like a slow, drifting fog. Watching Luisa lowered into the ground made it clear that I will never see her again.
The door opens behind me, and I hear soft footsteps.
Zasha.
He crosses the room quietly and sits beside me. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay; he knows I’m not. I’m just trying to hold it together. Yet the grief overwhelms me, and as he pulls me into his arms, a sob escapes my throat before I can stop it. Then another. And another.
I lean forward, pressing my face into his chest, and the tears flow out—raw and unstoppable.
Zasha doesn’t try to quiet me.
He sits with me in his arms. His hand settles gently on my back, warm and steady.
No pressure. No expectation. Just presence.
I don’t know how long I cry.