When my dad was closer to death than to us, he’d call out for his mom. His sickness made him weary.

One slow breath in and a single syllable out: amá

Gentle on the tongue, bitter in the lungs.

I never asked him why he cried out for her but I think it was because we want, so greedily, to somehow squeeze into a fetal position and remain in our mother’s heart for as long we can.

Carved deep, sewn slowly.

Nestled deep in her chest, near her neck, closer to the clavicle.