“Carry me home.” “Home to me yaad.” The procession was moving along nicely. I was in the front vehicle with my grandpa, who clutched the steering wheel tightly. Indomitable focus. Please, Lord, don’t let us hit a bump, or a huge pothole. He was thinking the same thing, except actually maneuvering around each one. We climbed a large hill on a narrow dirt road. A whole population of people traveling by foot was observing our procession passing by, peering into our cars and into our faces. At the top of the hill: a large clearing, an entrance, a white building. Red mud and round rocks. A gray, cloudy sky, atop scraggly, green bushes. Warm, humid air. Jamaica. Empty rectangles and small, wooden signs staked and hand-labeled: “Reserved.” A little confusion. “Where is Mommy?” “Grandpa, there.” “Where is my brother?” Walking together toward the site. Not a good pair of heels for this. Entirely too sexy. I wore them for her, though. Because she likes sexy. They sank completely into the ground. I started walking on my tippy toes. The loud crowd of people at the site next to us sang for us, mostly. Mostly, the pastor said a few soft words and then we sang–tried to sing–: “Yesss, we will gather at the riiiiverr…” Angelically. So that she could hear, or that heaven could hear. Or, just as best as we could. Each of us stared at the place. Stared anxiously, grievously, solemnly. Four men lowered my great-grandmother, Veta P., into the red, earthen ground.