I bring my daughter’s body with me to visit my sister’s stone. My daughter died, not for the first time, a month before. We flew her body an hour south to a suburb outside Los Angeles where it stayed for four weeks before they shipped her body back to us. When we picked her body up at the airport, she wouldn’t tell us what they did to it. I hate to bring people with me to the cemetery and I can’t stand to go alone. My daughter’s body is a kind of in-between, and it fits beside me in the black box I drive to the grave. On the way there, I complain about the distance between our house and my sister’s permanent address. Stops along the way. Inevitable detours. One-way streets. It’s taking so very long to reach her, I say. My daughter’s eyes stare at the lines in the road. When we arrive, there is a family crowded around one of my sister’s neighbors. A woman kneeling on dirt the next row over. A boy with a man who could be his father or someone else comforting each other across the way. The living have left toys and jewelry and newspaper clippings and pumpkins and pieces of fruit. Everywhere flowers. The smell of ash in the air. Your aunt’s birthday month is always busy, I say as I pull my daughter’s body from the car. November. All Souls. The month of remembrance. As if we could forget. My daughter’s shadow stops at the first grave we cross. It stays there. Her body follows as I make my way to my sister. At first, I try not to step on the dead, but soon I no longer hear their bones crunching beneath our feet. My sister waits where my parents left her, shivering in the endless shadow of the split oak next to her bed. Her ribs rattle and shake in time with its leggy branches. I didn’t bring flowers, I tell my sister. I brought my daughter instead. They’ve never met. This is my sister, I tell my daughter’s body after an awkward pause. Her body sways a little in the breeze, and I pretend the movement is a nod. In the distance, my daughter’s shadow rises and lengthens to slide across stones. It reaches my daughter’s feet where it winds around her body like a cat. The shadow, my daughter’s body, and I stare in silence at my sister. Her stone stares back. When the sun starts to slip beneath the hill, my sister whispers to the split oak. I can’t understand the words, but I recognize the tone. I turn to my daughter’s body. It’s time for us to go.