My grandmother laid on her deathbed, her breaths shallow, her eyes closed. It takes the grace of God to hold me upright. Once the living embodiment of a thunderstorm, rolling over peaks and valleys to be a blessing or a curse to the land before. The woman before me is a husk of her former self, the hint of a rain among scattered clouds.

It is impossible to know how long I’ve been grinning in my sleep, but by the time I blink, I am well into the act of smiling. Rhythmic thumps and laughter pass through the thin walls of my two-bedroom house like apparitions, making me feel not quite so lonely. Morning light pours in through the curtains, but to me, my daughter’s giggles make the sun rise.