content warning: mentions of death and loss.
You’re young, too young to remember the first time those photos were hung up, the ones above the mantle. Sometimes you ask but when your mom tells you, the information seems so insignificant, it always slips your mind. There’s nothing connecting you to these people, but for some reason, they’re held up to such high regard.
You pray to the altar every Sunday. Pictures of people you’ve never met, look at you, all dead. Even the late aunt you barely know, smiles down at you. You’re handed a lit incense and are told to hold it between flat palms.
Send your prayers to your ancestors.
Who are they?
What do you do?
What do you say?
What do they say?
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