Nancy was seven years old. The crash that killed her had been eight days ago.
The pastor said her name gently, as if it might shatter in his house. I kept my hands folded in front of me because if I reached forward and touched the polished wood again, I was afraid I wouldn’t let go.
Our neighbors filled the pews. Her second-grade teacher sat in the front row.
My own sister had chosen balloons over burial.
Two police officers stood near the back, hats in their hands.
Nancy’s best friend held a sunflower that trembled in her grip.
My family wasn’t there. Not my mother, not my cousins, and not my sister, Rosie.
I kept glancing at the doors anyway, expecting them to open at the last minute. Expecting my older sister to rush in, breathless and ashamed.
She never did.
My family wasn’t there.
