“‘Dying isn’t the end of the world,’ my mom liked to joke.”
We are following two black-suited undertakers across the one-hundred-degree parking lot out to a windowless metal building—my dad; my brother, Charlie; his wife, Amelia; me. My husband is at work, our kids at school. It is the day before my mom’s memorial service. My phone is buzzing in my pocket with texts of flight arrivals and last-minute arrangements.
The uglification of America,
This is the end,
Please come back,Dad wants to put you in this.
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More in this series
We remember only a version of the story, and we tell only a fraction of that version. And sometimes, even that will fail us.
Papa left the summer I turned eight. The emotional toll of a wife who blamed him was too much to carry along with the burden of repatriating thousands of Filipino citizens.