A Visit from Grief Itself

It was a few days after I got back from England that I finally got to see Sal’s parents. They had just come from the funeral home. Grief was still clinging to them like the smell of incense after a long ceremony—faint but unmistakable, woven into their expressions, their movements.

They stopped by to see me. Just for a moment. Just to talk. Just to cry.

The Weight of Loss

I’ve been so wrapped up in my own grief that I forgot: other people are grieving Sal too. People who loved him. People who are trying to carry their own version of this heartbreak.

I’m so sorry for losing sight of that. I imagine many of you miss him in your own quiet way.

And you know what? I thought I was still buried under the weight of grief. I thought I had a good handle on how deeply I was mourning. But seeing his mom—really seeing her—changed that. She moved toward me, slow but steady, and then she was in my arms, sobbing. Her whole body shuddering in a way that made me think of the word ripped. That’s what this looked like. Like someone had ripped something vital out of her, and the rest of her body was struggling to stay upright.

Grief clings to me like wet clothes in winter—heavy, cold, and impossible to peel away. But her grief? It’s a different species altogether. It’s not just wet and cold—it’s freezing, immobilizing. The kind of sorrow that makes you forget how to be a person for a while.

Trying to Stay Strong

Sal’s dad was there too, standing next to her, quiet but solid. He looked like a man trying to hold up a building with his bare hands. You could see it—he was NOT doing okay. But he was doing enough so that she could fall apart.

Their Grief Is Bigger Than Mine

As much as I hurt, it’s nothing—NOTHING—compared to what they’re going through.

It’s one thing to lose a partner. It’s another thing entirely to lose a child.

I saw it in his mom’s eyes—the desperate need for reassurance. That he was loved. That he mattered. That he had people.

That’s why I’m writing this. Because I know now, without a doubt, that this funeral has to happen for them.

Sal didn’t want a big funeral (or any). He wanted his body donated to medical science. That was his way—simple, private, no fuss.

But after seeing his parents, I know that’s not going to be enough.

They need this funeral. Not because they’re big on tradition, or because it’s “what you’re supposed to do.” But because it’s the one moment they’ll have to stand in a room with people who knew their son and cry together. Laugh together. Say goodbye together. They need to see proof that their son’s life meant something to the world beyond their home.

They apologized to me for not following Sal's wishes. His mom, half jokingly, half seriously asked if he would be mad at her. He wouldn't. He would have wanted to make them happy. He would have also complained about it the WHOLE DAMN TIME, though. 

Let Me Tell You a Story

I’m telling you this because I want you to come. I want you to be there—not for me, and honestly, not even for Sal. I want you to come for Sal’s parents. He loved his parents even if he would never admit it.

Let me tell you a story. Sal didn’t introduce me to his parents until about two years ago. That’s right—after nearly a decade of being together, I was still a mystery to his family. Sal preferred to keep his life in compartments. He was the kind of guy who had his family, friends from college, friends from work—and never the groups shall meet. Well, it was rare, at least. The man loved a boundary.

So when he finally introduced me to his parents, it felt like a BIG DEAL. A surprisingly nervous moment for him. Later, his mom confided in me that they were beginning to think he was gay. His dad had, apparently, sat him down and told him, very gently, that they loved him no matter what—even if he was a maricón.

We laughed about that story so many times. Probably more than Sal was comfortable with. I’d bring it up just to see his face twist in embarrassment while I giggled. His parents were awkward and earnest in the most lovable way, and they just wanted to understand their son.

That story sticks with me. Not just because it was funny (and it was), but because it says so much about how much they wanted to know him, and love him, however he came.

What This Funeral Really Means

They need to see the people Sal let into his life. The ones he shared meals with, had adventures with, worked alongside. Grew with. Because from where they sit, grief can play cruel tricks. It can make a parent wonder if they did enough. If their sacrifices mattered. If uprooting everything—moving to a new country, starting over—was worth it. They need to know that it was.

By showing up, we’re helping them see the full picture. That the son they raised had a rich, full life here. That he did find connection. That he was cared for. That they gave him a good life—even if it ended too soon.

So I’m asking you—if you knew Sal, if you ever shared a moment with him that stuck with you—please consider coming to the funeral. Come stand in the room. Come hug his mom. Tell his dad your favorite story about their son. Let them know, in your own way, that they raised someone worth knowing.

The Morbid Part

I suppose this is morbid so you might want to skip this part.

It was a few days before someone could get to Sal. Maybe 36, maybe 72 hours. The human body starts to decompose not long after death. Fluid is released. “Purge fluid” is what the forensic and mortuary science fields call it. It refers to the dark, foul-smelling liquid that can leak from the nose, mouth, and other orifices during the active decay stage of a body. This happens as the body starts to break down internally, especially in the gastrointestinal tract and lungs.

That’s how Sal’s mom found him. It’s not the last memory I want her to have of her son. She told me about how she walked into the kitchen and wetted a paper towel to wipe it from his face, but it wouldn’t come off because of how long it had been dried.

Please help me carry Sal’s parents through this. I don’t want their last memory of him to be the one of how they found him. I want them to see their son lying peacefully as they say goodbye.

How to Help Carry Them Through

And if you can’t come, but you have a few dollars to spare, we’ve set up a GoFundMe to help with the funeral expenses. It’s not cheap to die in this country. I certainly can’t afford to give him the farewell his parents want to give him. And I don’t want them to go into debt just to say goodbye.

I get it if money’s tight. It is for too many of us right now. If donating isn’t an option, that’s okay. Truly. But if you can do anything—come to the service, write a message for his parents, even just share the link—it would mean the world.

I will remember all of this kindness. Every text and phone call, every meal dropped off (especially when I forgot to eat), every penny offered to help lift a little of the weight off our shoulders. Every gesture, big or small, has meant more than I can put into words.

I don’t know when and I don’t know how, but I hope one day I can find a way to give that same love and care back to each of you tenfold.

When We Gather

I don’t know what happens after we die. I’m still wrestling with that. But I do know what happens before we’re forgotten. We gather. We tell stories. We show up. We carry each other through.

If you ever loved Sal, or even just liked him a little bit, please do something beautiful in his name. Help give his parents one last gift: the comfort of knowing that their son’s life touched more people than they realized.

It’s a terrible thing to bury your child. But it’s a little less terrible when you don’t have to do it alone.

P.S.

Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be okay in time. I have my people. They will carry me through.