Last weekend was one of the first full Sundays I spent at home in a long time.
My dad came home around 5. Dragging his dirt-stained boots past the threshold, he told me to get dressed. I was in the living room, as awake as I was three hours ago when I first dragged myself out of bed.
We were going to a family get together. A death anniversary. Catholicism with Vietnamese-Buddhist mysticism suggests that in order for an ancestor to be able to ascend into heaven, their children must leave them fruits, incense sticks, and prayers. It's a final responsibility.
Shower. Jeans. Tee shirt. I got ready in fifteen minutes. Ten minutes later, I'm still waiting. Mom's gotta get ready. Twenty minutes later, still waiting. Nephew's gotta get ready. An hour later, my sister gets home. Time to go.
My sister announces she's going to walk and volunteers me. My nephew comes along. My dad puts away the keys. We all walk the two blocks to get there.
When we get to my aunt's house, I navigate the driveway of cars to get to the door. Going in, I don't see anyone.
They're in the back. I forgot my aunt built an extra room specifically for the ping pong table, which could double as a party room.
There were two generations in three different strata: the parents, the toddlers, and the college students-post grads.
There, I had a real conversation with my cousins. The first real one in probably three years.
It was nice. Plenty of food. Meat in all forms. Oysters on the half-shell. Kids loud. Parents chattering. Cousins reminiscing about old times.
My sister's planning to move to Chicago. I don't know the names of my younger cousins.
After that first generation is gone, after those immigrants are all dust, I wonder which one of us will be responsible for making sure their souls are taken care of.
