What the Camera Caught
I don't remember deciding to run. I remember being at the back of the room and then being at the casket, and everything in between is just noise and my mother's hands and my uncle's arms and Mr. Whitfield's voice trying to be calm.
What Rosa's livestream caught, and what over four hundred relatives and family friends watched in real time before anyone in the room fully understood what they were seeing, was this: my father's eyelids fluttering, his mouth working around a sound with no air behind it yet, and then, unmistakably, on a video that would later get pulled and re-uploaded a hundred times before the funeral home's lawyer got it taken down, his hand lifting an inch off his chest.
The scream that went through that room didn't sound like grief and it didn't sound like joy. It sounded like something in between that I don't think has a name.
"CALL 911," I was yelling, over and over, my hand on his chest feeling something that hadn't been there an hour ago and had apparently been building back for three days, faint and slow and entirely missed by everyone whose job it had been to check.
The paramedics who'd pronounced him dead three days earlier were, by pure and terrible coincidence, not the crew that responded. This crew found a pulse in under ten seconds.