text: Trigger Warning: Death, Grief, and Colorism The milky white mucus that would leak from her eyes had left lines carved into her face. A face I would only ever describe as hypnotically gorgeous was now contorted into a strange expression. My dull brain can’t come up with a fitting explanation for this. The only thing that comes to mind is that it was from an infection. Or perhaps the anguish of taking her final breaths. All that pain made the moisture in her body turn into an indistinguishable whiteness. It was like the clouds of her eventual resting place were already in her. Even with the aching written on every visible inch, I’d still say she was the most beautiful person. The color of her torturous infection was in direct contrast to her alluringly bronzed skin. The discharge, coupled with foundation shades lighter than her, made everyone whisper. "Ugly." It wasn’t an uncommon thing for dimwitted people to say about her. Her beauty mystified them, and with that came envy. Everyone else in my hometown had the color that comes into your bloodline when a master overpowers a slave. She was our original shade and was ousted because of it. The last time I’ll ever see her, they made her as hideous as they pretended she was. Some vomit crept into my throat as I looked upon the horrors of envy on her face. No one had even thought of shutting her eyes. Those pools of obsidian seemed out of place next to her falsely lightened skin. They no longer fit in her body, which was laid in a casket. I shiver while rubbing my hands against the cold mahogany. A splinter makes my finger leap from it. The small droplet of blood leaves a dark stain on the white cloth lining. That one speck of color is more in line with what she would have wanted to be buried in. White was a choice the town made to go against her. The vomit and pain in my chest made me do the unthinkable. I had to do it. I reached out my calloused, bloody finger to her still slightly warm face. I feel how the shea butter she always wears makes her skin so soft and supple. Her eyelids give in easily as I close them. In a time of mourning, the town always warns not to touch the dead. I spent so many days being told not to without being told why not. It was a veiled threat as successful as " don’t touch a hot stove." You have to do it to actually learn. Warnings are never enough to end curiosity. I almost want to laugh at the thought: If I touched a stove now, my fingers would blister, but I would never feel the heat. "Don’t ever touch no dead body lying in their casket. They are only for God and rest now. You go ahead and touch them; they gonna steal something from you." My grandmother repeated this to me almost every second in the days leading up to the service. As if she already knew I was going to do it. They had slapped on some ill-fitting dress before laying her in the casket. They bought the wrong makeup before laying her in the casket. Left her eyes open in the casket. They were begging for me to touch a dead body. To disturb her sleep, and in doing so, she took something from me. However, I would have gladly given her everything. "Ain’t no sense in touchin' a roach, no how." "She ain’t a roach." Saltiness fell from my eyes in my many attempts to defend my lover’s beauty. "Zama." Her mouth had formed enchanting notes the first time she ever spoke to me. She told me her name meant to try. And she had spent her whole life trying to defy expectations. Zama lays there unmoving, her eyes finally closed. I can tell she is trying to make sure I don’t cry. With that one touch, I could feel our past in her velvety skin. The tickles from the peach fuzz on her face bring me back to summer. The warmth of it brings me back to being under the sun, sitting on the peach tree in my backyard. "There’s a roach in our tree. Go get it out. " My grandmother yelled out to me as I was sweating through my clothes, leaving wet stains on my bed sheets. The summer sun was brutal that year. The last thing I wanted to do was face it and risk burning. I never imagined that once my lazy feet made it past the threshold, I would see her. Not a roach, but a charming girl climbing up our tree. I had heard about Roach many times before. But I never gave that name to the stranger I would see in town. Zama waved to me before quickly making her way to the highest branch. Her family never fed her enough throughout the day, making the tree the perfect refuge. She appeared to be maybe a year or two older than me. One day I’d be older than her, while she’s stuck at this age. That time between girlhood and being a grown woman. I learned how to climb just so I could ask her what her name actually was. That became the most delectable pastime. Every day, I risked the sun to sit in a peach tree. We ate the unwashed fruits until our bellies hurt while telling jokes and swapping secrets. The tart flesh of peaches would burst from their skin and into my mouth. That satisfying sensation was nothing compared to the first time Zama held my hand. I felt all the wonders of touch in her embrace. Her bluish-black skin made the sun and moon battle over who could show her off best. She would hold my hand under the light of both. The tingles and sweat from my palm would make her giggle. That was better than a peach too--not saccharine sweet, just right. Her clothes were tattered, but she only ever wore her favorite colors. Reds, oranges, and yellows fit in with the peaches. Red tempted the most; it clings tightly to her body like paint. Whenever she wore red, I swear dozens of peaches would fall to the ground to make room for her. And I'd smash them under my feet. They were undoubtedly jealous. Zama’s tiny frame felt like home whenever I reached out to graze it. I must be special to have been allowed to stroke my rough hands against her. On our last night together, she told me I was beautiful. A comment I was told by countless people but should have only belonged to her. I was dull. My loose curls looked silly next to her tightly coiled ones. Her hair stood taller than the trees. If it had grown any longer, it would’ve reached God. As her spirit left to greet him, he would detangle her hair and put it in braids for her. These braids would fall from the heavens to the earth, and I’d climb them. Even if the straw-like feel of them cut through my fingertips, I’d climb. Bloody, I’d embrace her before, even thinking to acknowledge God. I learned how to use these hands to climb and be with her wherever she goes. The image of her long braids and giggles in heaven pales compared to the sight of her in the casket. My hazy, tear-filled eyes can’t adjust to this image of her. When my hand finally leaves her, I let it fall to my side. There is so much we feel without even being aware of it. The light feel of air left my fingers. And before long, numbness trickled up my whole hand. When you touch the dead, interrupting their sleep, they take something from you. Zama took my sense of touch. Feeling was something that had already left me the day she died. "Was it worth losing your touch? Never being able to feel the softness of a baby's face? Or the papery feel of a flower, the prickliness of wood, or the feeling of your own skin? You gave up all that to touch a roach?'' The whispers followed me out of the church and all the way down the block until I was in front of our tree. When I rub my fingers on the bark, I feel nothing. But I am glad to have felt love once.