Naomi…
I wrapped this memory up in a letter and gave it to God before I ever found the courage to give it to you. But you’ve been sitting beside me all along, haven’t you? Humming low, steady… like you do when the weight of a story is too much for one heart to carry alone.
So I’m going to tell you now—plain and honest—the way it rises up in me.
In our house, crows meant death.
Not the poetic kind either… the kind that settles in your chest before anything has even happened. The kind that whispers something is coming, and you don’t have the language yet to rebuke it.
My mama… she died a little more than two months after my eighteenth birthday. Cirrhosis of the liver.
I was the one who took her to see Dr. Perez. Just a week before. Her regular doctor had missed it—missed how bad it really was—but this man looked at her one time and told the truth straight:
“If she lives, it’ll be a miracle. And she has to stop drinking. Now.”
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