dear po po

You are gone, and any semblence of grief I might have had is likewise dissapated, replaced only with a weariness at following the rituals of mourning.


I wear a thin cotton shirt, white, for you, and my other grandmother pinned on the kakhi coloured patch even though I do not know why it is that colour, and neither blue, nor black. My nails are stripped of their pretty gold as a sign of respect for you, and that I mourn the most, because I do not have my own bottle, nor lacquer, to make them nice again.


My family's struggling with all the strange beliefs your death has imposed on us. It was distasteful to see your face so coloured, your lips so garish. You were not like that in life. You were austere. The pearl wedged between your lips; they say it's meant to guard you toward the afterlife but I can only think of how uncomfortable it must be if so, and if you would not look funny.





There are many things to say, po po. How my mind easily summons back images of yellow, yellow banners with strange signs, yellow walls of canvas, and entire mock-up of the taoist courts of heaven, and white robed monks weaving in and out of the altars where they take a potted plant and tell my uncles to offer gifts to you. Of funeral music, and chanting, and how I mind none of these.

There is much I think about, but I think enough has been said. God bless your soul.