A friend once shared a photo of a cup that fell and shattered into pieces. To this I replied, all is not lost. I showed him a picture of a bowl, repaired. The cracks were painted with a layer of gold lacquer, holding all the broken pieces together and creating something new.

This was the memory that came to mind, when I saw Leia wrapped in a towel, in the passenger seat. When I put my arms around her and buried my face in her neck, I fully expected to feel the rise and fall of her breath – but there was nothing there. Everything, was lost.

It was wishful thinking. Her body was only warm, because of the sun. Her eyes still open, because she died by the window while barking at squirrels and our neighborhood cats. Death is brutal, final. I have wondered now, for days, where she might be. Is she by the window still? Is she wandering alone, wondering where we are? Does she feel, abandoned? Does she feel, at all? 

Grief is like love. It follows you like a shadow. Is with you, always. You wake up to it’s presence every morning. It’s there with you at night before you sleep. Relentless.

When I’m strong enough I can control these inevitable waves of emotion. Stay afloat long enough to reach the shore. When I’m not, I find myself engulfed by them, caught inside what feels like multiple storms. 

Every time you allow yourself to fall in love with a pet or a person, you risk being broken by them. 

Kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer, is real. I believe deeply in what it represents, I have to, to move forward. All is not lost. Our scars can tell a beautiful story.

No matter how broken we are, we can emerge stronger.

No matter how hard it is to love, we must.

You are outside
taking in
the last of the sun,
fully yourself.

In the embrace
of a world
where the sound
of your breath
is the only rhythm
you know.

This is where
you will find me –
inside that gentle
rise and fall.

Clearing a path
for your next move.
Leading you
to a formation,
millions of years
in the making.

Waiting
to be named.

As they lower the coffin into the ground, my aunty winces at the dusty yellow truck and the grating sound of chains doing the work. “This is how it’s done now?” She asks, appalled. “A machine instead of human beings?”

When death arrives, the questions inevitably come. Who will remember my aunt, my mother, my grandmother? Who will lower me into the ground? By then, would I care?

These are questions no one really wants to ask. It’s a heavy burden for anyone to carry but occasionally and especially during funerals, I wonder – what will I do with their photo albums, their boxes of memories, their history, their clothes? Where will they go?

Another truck rolls in, startling the crowd and dumps a pile of dirt over the casket. Once that’s done it begins pounding and packing it in. Just then, a family friend approaches me and says, “I hear you’re going to climb a volcano.”

“Yes, I think so. Why not?”

“Indonesia? That sounds awesome.”

His face is round. He has a business, a wife, two children, and is also a traveler. He says, “It’s easier without children right? When you’re traveling?”

“Is it?” I ask.

What a terrible thing to say, but really, is it? Is it easier? Would I rather climb a volcano than have children?

The rest of this is no longer a conversation. I resolve to listen. How traveling with two children and a wife is double the cost. How you have to work with their schedules. His complaining is self-congratulatory and smug. To be able to have children and travel is a rare kind of privilege. He is bragging. He is either trying to make himself feel better or to make me feel smaller. I can’t decide which one it is. It’s probably just the truck pounding the dirt in, that’s getting the better of me.

Why am I looking for a summit to reach in Indonesia? What could be found there that I couldn’t find here?

When the work is finished, the men in faded neon vests stop the truck’s engine, jump off, and crouch low to the ground. Now, with their hands, they take sheets of grass and place them over the grave. They hastily throw the flower arrangements on top – a sullen heap of white roses, red carnations, orange marigolds and fragrant lilies to hide the mismatched pieces of grass below.

By then, my aunt and mom are already in the car, waiting for me.

in the house
beside the liquor store
on the corner
of a rented
American dream

we lived
between the familiar
and the foreign
between abundance
and desire

plastic chairs
on cold linoleum floors
christmas cards
draped along fishing line

mismatched pillow cases
and blanket covers made
from scraps
left behind
on the factory floor

we used to
with much less
and much more

have a home
spun
from a stronger thread