I inhale
and I am surrounded by
a cacophony of honking horns
and vendors yelling prices from their shops,
teenage boys catcalling me
from the back of a jeepney,
humid Philippine air settling into my skin,
and Lolo’s grave amidst it all-
a suffocating tomb in a small plot of land,
the ground paved with stone
to prevent others from burying their dead
in Lola’s land, she tells me,
and I imagine skeletons
searching for solace in the dirt,
searching for tranquility interspersed
in this chaotic mess of a cemetery
enveloped by a bustling marketplace,
as we light two candles
continually sputtering out in the wind,
raindrops beginning to grace my neck,
and I wonder
if I were to open this tomb
would I find blood still spilling
as fresh as it was fifty years ago,
an open wound and Lola’s tears –
or would I find rotten bones,
and body long decayed,
the emptiness whispering to a void
that still hasn’t been filled,
and I wonder
if the silence can still be heard
above the hum of the city
surrounding this grave,
if fifty years from now
this tomb will be buried
beneath car exhaust,
and I wonder how
the dead have room
to breathe here.
I exhale.