By Carina Muñoz
My grandfather was a godless man. The night my family laid his body to rest, my grandmother placed a rosary between his fingers. It was the wooden one she’d hung above their bed, the bed that hardly knew his body.
During the velorio, my father and I learned how to speak without moving our mouths. We walked up to the casket hand-in-hand, and when he let go, he caressed his father’s face. In that moment, my father knew that he was attending his own funeral.
Western Screech Linocut
by Grace Brieger