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Last winter, I lost my tía (aunt) to COVID despite her successfully recovering from a seizure, her body rejecting food, and being in a coma. Her fight would ultimately come to an end from being moved to a recovery center, where from one day to the next, she would get COVID and pass away. Losing her was far more terrifying than when I found out my sister got COVID. It was more terrifying than having just recovered from COVID myself.

I regret never allowing myself to connect with her, too afraid to listen to her speak because my ears were not familiar with Spanish.

I remember her love, though. And the way she loved being with family. I remember the softness of her hands, her warm embrace, her tone, so angelic, you might not have ever heard it without familiarity. 

I had attended funerals before, in fact, just earlier that year, and again, I will attend one this year. She was the first person I really felt I lost, though. I hadn't known the pain I felt that day. Our memories making a home for her than any 10–person, untimely 30–minute–service could.

And it seems I'm here again, searching for the memory of another family member taken from us.