Grandma Gladys lay still and cold in the casket. She was pale and silent. The old woman would never sing again. Sierra would miss the singing more than anything else. There wasn’t a song in her anymore, now that Grandma Gladys was gone. Sierra was just twelve years old—old enough to except death and know loss, but too young for it to make any sense. Standing there in that dimly lit parlor, staring down at the very face of kindness, mourning the loss of harmony and joy, the young girl in the black mourner’s dress doubted death would ever make sense to her. She doubted she’d ever smile again, in this moment. The sadness was too much for her, too overwhelming. She knew, with certainty, that she would never sing again; for the song in her had died when Grandma Gladys had slipped away, taking her sweet old voice into...