The ringing of the phone startles me awake.
Fear pops my balloon of a lung. A phone call
in the dead of night: I cannot breathe. I am 8 years old.
My yeye—the father of my father—
has died, but my father never tells me. He leaves
the burden for my mother to unload.

Years later, the bumps of the dirt road jolt
me awake. My father and I are driving to Hushi—
his hometown. I look out the window to see
a dilapidated town with houses barely
standing. The elderly sit outside and fan themselves
to avoid the heat. Men are shirtless and smoking.
Women peel lotus seeds from their pods,
throwing whatever they don’t need onto
the ground. This is my father’s birthplace.

We pull up to a house that looks more modern—
a brick house standing two stories tall with glass
windows instead of square-shaped holes to let light in.
Half of the town greets us. They tell me
we are all one family. A man—possibly my uncle—
takes us into a field where we burn money
next to a great stone, so my yeye can spend eternity
in luxury. This is the place where my family,
including my yeye, is buried. It is too hot here,
I want to leave.

My aunt walks me back to the house and
sits me in my grandfather’s room. Nervous,
I open drawers and find a picture of my father
in his cap and gown, graduating—something
my yeye couldn’t attend. Others of my brother
and me. I remember the day when the picture
was taken. I didn’t want to sit in my yeye’s lap.
And today, I don’t want to be at his grave.

My aunt tells me he would hold the pictures
every night before he went to bed. She asks me
how I am feeling, but I’m speechless—any sound
will break the dam behind my eyelids.

Later I ask my father to tell me about
my yeye, but he is not one to share his life.
I go to my room because
we are a family that grieves alone.