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“Get over here, Flavie,” a woman calls over her shoulder, contagious smile on her face.

Flavie raises a finger to them, looking at me. “In some ways yes. But”—she shrugs—“we’re human. She was a pain in the ass.Drank too much liquor. Lost her temper too easily. A straight shooter ’til we bled.” She laughs softly.

“How so?”

“She told us hard truths. Constantly. Sometimes it was harsh.” She cocks a brow. “Dress too short to church for her liking?” She scoffs. “She’d tell us in front of God and everyone that Jesus wouldn’t be impressed by a leggy whore with no shame.” She chuckles.“But she never lied. Never held back. Told us when she messed up as much as she told us when we did. We did something to piss her off?” She smirks. “She let us know on the spot, no matter where we were. And then it was over. Never threw it in our face or played games. She showed her cards, for better or worse. That’s how she loved us—hard and with honesty. Wasn’t always pretty, but it was true.”

One of the women starts to hum, the rest following until the smooth sound becomes louder than the speakers.

“She spanked us but made us biscuits.” She shrugs. “Did a lot wrong but did a lot right too. In the end, the light finds a way to outshine the dark.”

Flavie squeezes between two people and locks her hands with theirs and the first lyrics, sung in unison, follow.

Amazing grace . . .how sweet the sound.

They continue on, every lyric of the familiar hymn sung with the execution of a well-trained choir in front of a machine made to turn bodies to ash. The strength of their voices never wavers despite the emotion that fills their faces.

. . . that saved . . . a wretch . . . like me.

They continue through the whole song, and it’s as deafening as it is beautiful. Impossible to look away from. Singing every word like it matters. Like Alida can hear them wherever she’s gone off to.

The earth shall soon . . . dissolve like snow . . .

Wanda and Dondi, who usually stay in the back until it’s time to roll the body in, peek their heads around the corner. Wanda’s eyes meet mine: They’re wet. When I bring a hand to my face, mine are too.

The song ends, but an echo of the words stay. Like the lyrics merge with the air and imbed themselves into the walls. Wanda works the machine, rolling the box holding Alida in to be cremated. I sniff, looking at all of her friends and family. Imperfect people loving imperfect people.

“Would one of y’all like to push the button or would you like us to do it?” I ask.

Flavie puts her hand on the red button and looks at the rest of them, rivers of tears covering her cheeks. Like a secret language, they move toward her, hands piling on top of one another like a team in a football huddle.

“Bye, Mama,” she says, a wet smile on her face. “We’ll miss your mouth and your wisdom.”

Together, they push, and the loud hum of the machine fills the air.

For the first time in my two decades of working in this building, I’m jealous of the woman burning to ashes in a box.

Forty

I’vebeenquietmostof the afternoon. I’m a lot of things, but blind isn’t one of them. I know what this is: Alida’s send-off shone a light on some corner of me that I’ve kept dark. The desire, despite how uncomfortable it feels, to have people around me. People who would miss me if I were gone. People who I let get so close to me—despite my flaws—and would want to say goodbye. For so long I’ve pretended not to want it, now there’s no denying that I do.

Hours later, climbing the steps of my porch, there’s an ache in my chest.

Molly must sense it because when I walk inside, instead of barking and pouncing on me with something valuable half chewed in her mouth, she nuzzles her nose against my leg until I pet her. At my quietsit, she obeys.

The apocalypse is upon us.

I drop my purse at the door, the Miranda Lambert record on the player, and my body onto the couch. Molly rests her head on my lap.

Despite my best efforts not to love the house, I do. Even without a picture on the wall. Every little detail makes it beautiful. Every single piece tells a story.

I feel the poems under my toes and hear their words in the silence.

A single industrial bulb drips from the ceiling overhead—which I hired Pedro to install after I realized he wasn’t a hustler—and I hate it will light the way for someone else.

Along with the three woven barstools at the kitchen counter I found on the side of the road.

And the ridiculous purple, velvet, wingbacked chair Wren loves but is constantly moving around.