My mom’s body laid flat on the hospital-style bed in her bedroom. My dad, sister, and I removed her soiled clothes and put clean ones onto her lifeless body. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Her frail frame felt unexpectedly heavy—heavy in my arms, heavy in my soul. Then we waited for her body to be picked up.

Eventually, two men arrived. But they came earlier than we had anticipated, so we asked for more time. Don’t take her. Not yet. We’re not ready.

They kindly came back a few hours later, wrapped her in a black bag and carried my mom’s body out the front door. Just like that, gone. We stood in the entryway for who knows how long hugging, sobbing, clinging onto each other.

Every Thanksgiving, I set out a dish with cranberry sauce the way my grandmother used to make it—right from the can, ridges in tact. It reminds me of her and helped us find joy in the midst of grief during one particular Thanksgiving. Of course, I like to include some homemade cranberry sauce, too, like this version with pomegranate and orange.