Six months of swallowing tears.
Gone.
I cry from somewhere ancient. Somewhere beneath pride. Beneath control.
“I miss her,” I choke out. “I wish it was me.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Kimberly is beside us now with her arms wrapped around both of us.
David Sr pulls back just enough to look me in the eye.
“No,” he says firmly. “No, son.”
He turns slightly before addressing the congregation but keeping a hand on my shoulder.
“This,” he says, voice thick, “is the man that loved my baby so much that she saw paradise before God called her home.”
The room is quiet except for sniffles.
“He made sure she felt freedom from her body. He made sure she knew love without limits.”
I shake my head, still crying. David Sr turns back to me.
“You’re still here because your life has purpose and promise,” he says gently. “And you honor her by walking in that purpose and fulfilling those promises.”
He pauses and quotes softly, “‘Psalm 34:18 says: The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.’”
His thumb presses into my shoulder. “You are crushed, yes,” he says. “But you are not abandoned.”
I nod, unable to speak. He pulls me into one more embrace before returning to the pulpit. The sermon shifts after that. It’s about love. It’s about living in a way that makes our angels in heaven proud. When service ends, half the congregation hugs me. Not out of pity but love.
We make our way to brunch after service. Just me, Kimberly, and David Sr at a small table by the window. Zaria had a meetingat the advocacy center, but she kissed my cheek before leaving and told me to call her when I was done.
Kimberly reaches across the table and takes my hand.
“We love you,” she says plainly. “You and Zaria.”
David Sr nods. “You both are family.”
I swallow hard.
“Thank you,” I manage.
“You’re welcome to lean on us,” Kimberly continues. “To grieve with us.”
David Sr adds, “But don’t let the grief stunt the possibilities of joy and happiness.”
I nod slowly.
“She shows up,” Kimberly says softly, smiling through tears. “In the smallest ways.”
“Like what?” I ask quietly.
“The wind at the beach,” she replies. “A song at the right moment. A random burst of laughter that feels like her.”
David Sr smiles faintly. “Peace that passes understanding.”
I think about the lanterns. About the way the sky swallowed them whole.
