THE GRIEF YOU CARRIED

Words by Mariana Cid De Leon Ovalle 
Art by Tiffany Moreno 

you wore it like a necklace—
heavy, gleaming, choking—
weighing you down,
while also fueling your fire for life. 

but there’s something
I don’t think everyone knew:
you always had one foot out the door. 

from the moment I met you, I felt it—
one foot here, the other already
reaching heaven. 

maybe it started
when your dad died in 1994.
maybe earlier.
you knew grief too young,
and you never put it down.
how could you?
it consumed you.
it doesn’t fade.
it’s a dance with the reaper—terrifying,
but irresistible. 

I begged you not to make this one
your last dance.
but when you went into the hospital—
“just a heart valve issue,”
they said— I swear I saw it:
you were already rehearsing
your grand finale. 

I want to be angry.
angry because you only lived five years
without your mother
before you followed her.
angry because you were a mother
to me, and you abandoned me. 

you said you wanted to go home.
I didn’t know you meant their home. 

now, I feel trapped
in a reality I never consented to,
in the long road I have yet to traverse
without you. 

I know you’re here.
I know better
than to question the veil.
but it doesn’t change anything.
it doesn’t make me feel better.
not yet. 

not when it’s only been—
17 days.
2 weeks.
395 hours. 

the clock keeps ticking—
but I don’t.
I’m stuck in time:
9:45 pm. August 5. 2025.

the second hand shakes
but never moves. 

the last thing you told my youngest:
“look for me in the stars.”
I hated that moment—
and I cherish it. 

the last thing you told me:
“You were always a good daughter to me.”
you knew I thought of you as more
than a mother-in-law.
I hated that moment—
and I cherish it. 

bittersweet isn’t even the word.
I wanted you to stay.
I bargained.
I lit candles.
I held vigil.
I prayed and prayed. 

and yet—