Photograph of Kirsti Jewel, author of “I’ll Breathe For You,” published in this month’s issue in the Nonfiction section, and her husband, Kwame.

Off in the distance, beanied field workers are getting yelled at by a foreman for congregating around a lit smudge pot, attempting to warm their bodies before descending into the cebolla fields.

Kaya returned from a day sweeping graves to find her boyfriend’s brother Manny waiting by her door in Navotas Cemetery. He was not alone.

It was also refreshing to meet someone so open and different, even if Joi was only a ghost.

Mama said white tears taste like Koolaid. She said her own mother, Granny Liz, got immune to them when she was working for the Washington’s and the “lady” of the house would try to use them every time she asserted her right to go home and be with her own children before the hoot owl started hunting.

Two of my father’s favorite sayings crossed my mind as the plane touched down in Bulawayo: Almost doesn’t fill a bowl and second place is the first loser. I expected him to say one or the other once he found out the truth.