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…on my sleep it is still raining
ash, flakes falling like memory…

‘Clear Brightness’ Boey Kim Cheng

On the first clear day, we set off
for the crematorium. I never knew
how she remembered which niche
housed her husband’s ashes, or what

she felt when faced with the blank oval
intended for her likeness when it was time.
The monk in his saffron robes lowered his head,
chanting, sweat beaded on his shaved pate.

No incense this time, no Taoist priest
with his flimsy sword. Just us: grandmother,
mother, granddaughter, and a hired man.
The mantra ended. Veined marble was no match

for stake and mallet. Blow after blow –
so much marble dust. I retrieved the glazed
photograph of my grandfather in his bespectacled,
benign years. My mother cleared aside

what was left of the plaque. Grandmother
reached into the cavity. I can’t recall the shape
and colour of the urn. Somehow, we were in
an open boat: women, girl, and boatman.

We picked out fragments of bone and released them
into the watery expanse. They fluttered out of sight
so rapidly. Then we upturned the urn and ashes
floated in the wake of our rowing. Did this mean

his spirit was now free? I clutched his photo so hard
it cut my palm. I stood up, crouched down low,
and lobbed it like a pebble. It skipped once, twice,
three times, then sank deep below the surface.

after Li-Young Lee

My grandmother cannot read
the words dancing across the screen,
lighting up in time with the music.

She sings from memory,
in the dialect of her youth:
the two of us walk in the rain

sharing a single small umbrella.
If my grandfather were alive
he would light a cigarette and draw

breath until the end glowed
into a fiery red, saying nothing.
It is my father’s turn, and he handles

the microphone as if it’s an old friend.
Beside the road, beneath the banyan tree
is a place I think of often. My mother smiles

and mouths the words in Mandarin,
soundlessly. She too cannot read Chinese.
The tranquil skies and the balmy breezes,

the sweet scent of the grass. I hear only
snatches of meaning in the few words
I understand. Meanwhile, I think on

the puzzle of my grandparents, fertile
and warm, lying together in the dark.
Of my parents, young, newly-burdened

and afraid, whispering each other to sleep.
The rain falls around us with great intensity.
We must walk with care, under the one small umbrella.

It is my turn to sing. I don’t know
any Chinese songs, so I sing in English.
My family is listening.