With a heavy heart,
what is born from the womb must return to soil; to the waves; to the flames.
What my grandmother had given, death takes away.
Age 54—two months shy from 55—
in the arms of a brother,
under the same earth your parents returned to.

Where are you now, Dad?
I kept kissing the prayer mat hoping God would pass on my love to you,
wishing God would give you strength.
Did you feel it?
I whispered a secret to the ceiling each night:
I am terrified to live in a world without you.
Have you ever bargained with God like I did?

Where are you now, Dad?
Are you somewhere in the sky? I go out to look every day.
Are you in the pauses between storms?
Are you under the wings of the parents you lost too soon?
Is that really you in my dreams? I hope it is.
You can’t be decaying under the earth, Dad. That’s not you.
I’ll keep looking.