Like a wake, but no one has come to sing karaoke, play pusoy dos or mah jong, drink rum and warm coke. No flowers with funerary smells in the living room, no curling satin ribbons, names inked in permanent marker—they are not the only things that bleed. There are no votives or pictures in frames on a mantel strewn with White Rabbit candies, shiny tangerines, saucers of food offerings. But there are things that, when they go from your life, feel like a death, a mourning. Long road of grieving, no headstone in sight.