Tai-kong.
The only story I have of you is when dad told me
You used to be so cheap,
That you used newspaper to wipe your ***.

When I made the trek to
Abad Santos to visit your grave,
I found myself staring upward at
Brows knotted permanently
In a scowl.

I associate your scent with
The smell of incense and
Burning candles,

Your touch like that of
Cold marble.

Even in death,
You eclipse my grandfather.

He has your eyebrows.

I hope you noticed.