Seventeen paces from the edge of the church is a grave. The stone is marble, and the words read, “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”

Seventeen paces from the edge of the church, my heart gives way.

Eleven years ago, a child was buried here. The priest stood at the edge of her grave and sprinkled sand on it.

Eleven years ago, I buried my soul in a dusty town in southern India.

The people stand by, their beady eyes watching closely. I want to scream. I want to tell them that this isn’t a movie. That this is life.

The women stand on one side, their sarees lifting in the light breeze that drifts through the open church. There is a sound of a hammer knocking on wood. It is distant and perhaps I’m the only one to hear it.

We walk in single file. My hands are sweaty and clammy.

I want to cry.  It's all I can think of in the moment. My sister is dead. And the crowd is watching; we're on display.

I don't cry at my sister's funeral and for the life of me will never be able to let that thought go.