The bells above Salt’s door jingle, startling me. I turn to see neighbors poking their heads in. Just for a moment, I can imagine that the smell of Grandma’s cooking is what brought them inside. Any minute now, Grandma will come out of the kitchen and greet them, and this whole day—the whole year—would have been just a freaking nightmare.

But the neighbors wear sorrowful faces and offer condolences. As hard as I try, I never know what to say back. I feel pulled in all directions, my nerves stretched thin, until Mom steps out of the kitchen and rescues me.

“Go sit down. Dinner will be ready soon,” she whispers to me. She’s tied her hair into a tight bun—her “ready for work” style.

Mom shakes hands, offers hugs, and says encouraging words. It’s painful to see the way people are mesmerized by her, like they’re searching for Grandma’s eyes when they look at hers, checking to see if they are the same shade of brown.

Grandma’s closest friends are beginning to arrive, too. Dona Clara. Seu Floriano. They burst into tears at the sight of Salt’s open doors, and Mom promptly comforts them.

I worry this is too much for her. But I’m paralyzed. I don’t know how to be there for anyone when I feel adrift myself.

The gathering at Salt becomes a wake, with people sharing stories and happy memories, like when Grandma climbed up a tree to dislodge a kite and got stuck up there herself. Some just listen solemnly, taking slow sips of café com leite, because, sometimes, when it’s too hard to talk, it’s easier to just eat and drink.

After a while, plates of buttered couscous covered in beef jerky, caramelized onions, and fried chunks of squeaky coalho cheese get passed around. Mom brings me a plate, too.

“Eat,” she tells me, before slipping back into the kitchen. But despite the deliciously savory smell, my throat is tied in too many knots to eat.

The bells above our door chime again. I look over my shoulder to see Dona Selma making her way inside. Grandma’s best friend, who is like a grandmother to me and a second mother to Mom. Seeing her now in these black clothes instead of her usual bright, festive colors makes everything seem more...real.

When Dona Selma spots me, I must look as lost as I feel, because she comes straight over, pushing past people trying to speak with her. She pulls me into a tight hug. I’ll never hug Grandma again. The pain is like a shock through my ribs.

“Lari, I need you to remember one thing,” she says in my ear. “You are loved. And you aren’t alone. You aren’t alone. Do you know this?”