The word is in Latin. All along, the answers to all my questions were right here at the thorn chapel’s altar. Buried and just waiting to be found. I turn my face into Saint’s chest so I don’t have to see that word anymore, so I don’t have to see my mother’s picture or my mother’s orbital bone or the grass that once covered my mother’s grave. But it doesn’t matter. The word is seared into my mind just like everything else. Convivificat.
