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

Against a clear blue sky
Gunung Rinjani casts
a formidable shadow.
Simmering for years,
the threat of eruption pulls
the heart
the lungs
the legs
forward
in breathless pursuit
of it’s summit.

Inside
a smoldering history
of lives lived,
of lives lost,
of dreams, delayed.

The ascent casts a spell.
A clear path buffered by trees,
ribbons of soft white clouds caress
the face
the neck
the shoulders.
A welcome diversion
as the air thins
as doubt rises
thousands of feet above the sea.

Perched high
far from the world below
the long graceful curve of the summit
beckons,
the deep waters of Segara Anak
glisten,
the sky makes way
for an all encompassing darkness.

The eyes close now.
In their place
only the heart can hear
Orpheus’ song,
only love would follow
this steep treacherous road.

In dreams
the wind is a gentle force
pushing Eurydice forward.
In dreams
the eyes open to a new life
at the end of a long arduous climb.

This, is not the story.

The illusion of safety
fades from view.
Weary legs fail
to remain steady
on a shifting trail
of stone and ash.
The fall from here
would be fatal.

Alone
the Sun rises again
upon a desolate landscape
coaxing the chill
from trembling hands.

The wind continues to howl
filling the air
with words drawn
from the depths of the Earth.

Songs of courage
in one breath,
songs of longing,
in yet another.

amber leaves begin
falling to the forest floor
recalling what was

The distances we must travel
through time, memory and space.

In flight
wings unfurled
eyes narrowed
she descends again
as the morning fog
lifts

There is nothing more exquisite
than this –

The surface of the water
is deceptively calm
she waits instinctively
for life to stir
underneath

that deep persistent ache, a hunger
that cuts like a knife.

Weary from solitude
and empty of sustenance
she hears a call
a deep barking
a familiar voice

What makes us whole, must we be,
to be complete?

In his bill
a majestic red and black
she can sense
an offering
a minnow
enough for them both