The door unlocks with a quiet click, and I set my soaked luggage down on the carpet flooring. I feel too big in the cramped motel room, awkwardly swollen with exhaustion and dread. The only source of illumination comes from a dingy yellow lamp in the corner and the vibrant lights of the city out my small window, illuminating a fresh-made bed which now calls out for me. The downpour outside patters dully against the building. I peel off my rain-slick clothes, take a quick shower, and hang up the next day’s outfit before collapsing into a dreamless sleep. 

~ 

“You cannot tell them.” 

“I know mama, I’m not stupid.” 

Mama grimaces, and turns to give my hand a squeeze.I’m not sure if it helps. The car goes silent again. Mama is in a repurposed cocktail dress; I am in slacks and a black button-up, fished out from high school-orchestra days. When I’d tried it on I’d noted, somewhat guiltily, that it now hugged my torso with a subtle tightness perfect for nightlife back home.It squeezes my slumped frame, and I am uncomfortably aware of my clipped breathing. 

I remember you always loved me the most out of my siblings. You were always my āyí–my favorite relative who kept my youth plump with fried dough and steamed buns, and always knew that my favorite Christmas gift was a fat wad of cash and the freedom to spend it autonomously. We were both the youngest of three children, both the black sheep of our family, both thick as thieves for as long as I could remember. I’d always viewed us as two similarly whimsical patterns in the otherwise carefully curated tapestry of our family. 

But you’re dead. Funny almost–all that joy would soon be buried six feet into the ground. I try to be sad, like how I was when I first learned about your death and cycled through extreme emotions at a mile a minute, but I’ve become disappointingly numb, and the looming prospect of your funeral does not help. 

My cousins had decided against an open casket, and I am glad–I don’t think I could stand to see that side of you which is more like death than life. Better to believe that coffin is straining to keep you inside.

The frequency of floral bouquets steadily increases as Ma and I approach your body, taking a second to pay our respects at the casket and at a shrine bursting with magnolias and heavy with the smell of incense. A smiling picture of you is front and center, and a soft, respectful murmur of conversation drifts across the visitation room. 

A figure approached from the other side of your casket, crossing in long strides that make her black coat fan out like a peacock tail. “Wa sai a! You’re so big now, do you remember the last time I saw you?” My jiùmu, Ma’s sister-in-law, grabs my shoulders and looks me up and down proudly, before turning to talk with my mother. She is joined a second later by her bridge partner, Auntie Feng. The four of us exchange greetings in hushed tones, and the conversation takes on a familiar rhythm. 

“How’s college?” I answer that it’s fine, give a quick summary of grades and a list of friends, throw in some vague acquaintances for good measure, garner a satisfied nod. “Liking New York?” Very much so. “Happy to be back in Cali?” The weather’s so much better! 

The questions continue, lightly inquisitive, until my jiùmu, with a little smirk, asks what this drama-starved funeral group has been waiting for.“Do you have a girlfriend yet?” Auntie Feng titters scandalously, and I reply, yes, actually. The answer delights everyone but Ma, whose eyes take on a rather severe glint. We’d been talking for six months and I’d finally managed to ask her on a date, I say, and I feel a little proud because the word her slips smoothly between my teeth. Auntie Feng titters at a slightly higher frequency, and Ma lets a peal of laughter leak out, appearing abnormally amused. 

“Mèimei,” my aunt’s voice takes on an edge.“Why are you laughing? It’s good that he’s becoming a man–you know for a while there,I thought he was…” 

“You thought I was gay?” My words are once again smooth, putting in blunt English what my aunt has been trying to get at. 

“No–not you, not really.It’s just that young people are so…progressive nowadays. They forget tradition, and that God made marriage for men and women!” 

Ma, who has always disagreed with my jiùmu’s religious bend, speaks.“So you dislike homosexuals, Jiě-jie?” 

“Oh,I don’t dislike them–love your neighbors, you know. But I hate their choices.” Auntie Feng punctuates this with a nervous laugh, and it’s at this point we all remember ourselves and your casket, not ten feet away. “You’ll have to play majiang with us sometime” my jiùmu offers. My mother politely agrees, and we part ways before they are able to select a date. After a short funeral procession, we’re at your gravesite. 

Our family is standing tall at the cemetery, ready to see you off. 

~ 

Twelve minutes before you’re to be lowered down, it begins to rain. Light at first, though soon heavy gales hit the dry ground, puddling a bit before the dirt learns to soak up the water. Petrichor fills the air, and around us, the headstones are slick and shining. Your’s, the newest of them all, feels solemn and steady–this is a good funeral. It rains even harder, and my button-up becomes taut and cold against my body. Water has begun to collect in your grave, slightly muddy, but I think you would’ve liked the finality of it–to be lowered into that liquid density. I know I would. 

And as much as I had tried to avoid it, one final memory of you comes forward, bobbing up like a body held underwater for too long and let go: 

It’s the start of summer and I’ve just turned fourteen and you’re picking me up from Auntie Feng’s At-Home Daycare. Your car pulls up to the house, ready to send me home. I run down the stairs, barefoot out the door because I already miss you and the way your fragrance is starting to take on a grandmotherly quality. But your open arms turn into gaunt hands clamped painfully tight around my wrists as you lean down and squint. What is this, you look like a girl! Who painted your nails? 

Rain drowns out the sound of my cousin’s eulogy. The falling water feels almost as abundant as the air now, I think. For a second I am afraid we will all drown in this cemetery.

They were a gentle shade of purple–auntie Feng’s daughter had given everyone manicures to pass the time and I’d fallen in love with the pretty pastel. But I instantly realize what I’ve done wrong as you solemnly open the car door and we drive back home in silence. I lean against the window, watching houses rush by; my skull rattles along with the car engine. Minutes pass before you break the silence, and you speak in English now. You know if you ever date a man, your mother will die. 

The funeral ends. Mama hesitates, holds my hand. We help each other back into the car, the downpour having stopped now, save the rain gutters feeding the already waterlogged grass. 

And when you drop me off, I politely thank you, and I have never felt so fragile in my life. I rush up the stairs and say a quick hello to my parents, hands shoved in my pockets as I lock my bedroom door and cry. Harsh, shuddering breaths wrack my body as I realize something terrible. I scratch and gnaw desperately at my fingernails between sobs, scraping away at the evidence, at myself, and my mouth fills with the acrid taste of lavender acrylic.

Towels between us and the car seat, she takes us home.