Why does another Mass times site exist? Read my story →
Every time I get on a plane to Taiwan, someone else has died. All the immigrant dreams, the ambition, the well-meaning send-offs - it all just funnels down into this. Just deaths. Just people gone.
Loading...
I look at my boarding pass.
It's a pattern now. Every time I get on a plane to Taiwan, someone else has died. All the immigrant dreams, the ambition, the well-meaning send-offs from my childhood - it all just funnels down into this. Just deaths. Just people gone.
When I go back for a Taiwanese funeral, like my Grandpa's, the sadness is an absolute. It is heavy, superstitious, smelling of incense and burned paper money - a sweet smell. Everyone performs the somberness perfectly, right down to the paid crying ladies.
But right now, I am in Fremont.
There is no incense. It smells like adobo, fried rice, and leche flan.
We are in the living room, near the piano. Thirty people are sitting on makeshift extra chairs. This is the exact spot where he used to sit and watch my kids play while I worked upstairs in the office. I used to look down from the top ledge at him - feeling a little guilty that he was doing childcare in his own house, but relieved because this was what he wanted. I was proud that I had built the family where this could happen.
Now, the room is full of people who are... half-sad.
They are eating. They are catching up. I stand there feeling a knot of quiet resentment. Maybe I wish they were sadder. The man that just died was the man who taught me how to tighten plumbing with a pivot wrench and extensions. The man I watched break down in ICU psychosis. The man who checked on me down the pew at Mass to make sure I was paying attention.
But as the days of the novena go on, I watch the room shift. The same faces return every night. The air gets a little lighter. By the end of it, there is an unmistakable energy. A suffering-togetherness.
Looking at the aunties' faces, I remember the Filipino cook at my after-school program in Taiwan. That same absolute warmth. In my family, we survived grief with distance and perfect somberness. Here, they just sit in the room with it. They eat. They smile.
A cousin takes charge. She hands out packets of 8.5x11 paper, stapled in the corner. The prayers are printed in Times New Roman on bright white paper from someone's home printer, which feels different than the soft yellow ones they print at church. There is a photo of him on the front.
I try not to look at my wife. I can't bear to look at her face right now. I just force my own to stay still.
I sit down. I fold my hands. I try to hold the paper gently, respectfully.
I am not Catholic. When it is my turn to lead, I am terrified of stumbling. I carefully scan the lines ahead. Pontius Pilate. Scourging. I can't afford to mispronounce it. This isn't a book club. This is life and death.
The room starts the loop. It isn't the 8.5x11 paper that holds the gravity. It is the sound waves. Thirty voices hitting the walls of my kids' playroom.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Again. And again. And again.
Holy Mary, Mother of God. Pray for us sinners. Now and at the hour of our death.
I listen to the words. We aren't praying for him anymore. He is already gone. We are praying for us. For our hour of death. For when WE die.
My hands are still folded, but I feel my fingers digging into the packet. The paper crumples slightly under my thumb. I know what death looks like. I know the words I am saying.
I grip the paper tighter.
At the hour of our death. Amen.
My eyes snap open.
It is a shocked, violent wake-up. The banging on the window glass pierces my ears.
But when I look, there is no one there.
I swear I heard it. How long was the knocking? Did I dream it?
What time is it?
Where am I?
I can't breathe.
It feels smoky inside the cabin, but the blurriness is just in my eyes. I try to pull air in, but it catches in my nose and chokes me. I push it back out. Short, sharp, panicked breaths. My throat is bone-dry and burning.
I don't open the door. My brain tells me I don't have time for the door.
I hit the window control in the Tacoma. Just enough to roll it down an inch. I press my face into the gap and take a massive gasp.
Air.
My body is paralyzed. All I can do is stand guard at that one-inch gap and breathe.
Inhale. My system starts to reboot.
Inhale. I can move again.
My fingers clench against the crack of the window glass. My eyes squeeze shut.
My heart skips a beat.
Then a few beats.
I press my hand flat against my chest. The engineer brain kicks in, desperately running diagnostics through the panic. A-fib. It's A-fib.
No, no way. I worked at AliveCor. The startup that makes mobile EKGs. I know the hardware. I would have caught it when I tested it on myself so many times.
Where is she? The lady who banged on the glass?
I force the Tacoma door open and stumble out. I look back and catch a blurred glimpse of her. She is just standing there, next to a red Mini Cooper.
I don't wait to find out who she is. I am panicking.
I turn and run back into the house.
That is all I remember.
Then the sirens.
Last week: Market Size of 5.