Isabel Allende’s daughter died in her twenties. Allende wrote, “She wants me to find joy. And in that joy, find her.” I am grieving. My most important human losses happened before I realized they were so. Decades later it is finally sinking in, and I miss my family more than ever. Something in me refuses to forgive, bawling with resent and regret, but now. Cuando bailo, mi familia están aquí conmigo. I feel my uncle tell me that my joy is his. Mi abuelita dice que I have fulfilled their dreams of me, y mucho más. Te prometo, nena. I endeavor to keep them close the way I imagine devotees will do with their gods. I yearn to feel their disembodied love with the desperation of future saints. My piety is in following their erstwhile, earthbound lead: fearless joy and dancing, especially when there’s grief.