portrait of a long weekend
Thursday: Back seat of your parents' car, wearing your mother's clothes, sleeping on a long ride like you haven't done since you were a teenager. The wake shows you your family like a hall of mirrors. Your teeth smile back at you in someone else's mouth.
Friday: Gray sky, laundry in the back room. The clouds threaten rain, but sweat drips from your neck anyway as you slide hanger after hanger on the line. Attempt to work. Fall asleep without meaning to, until it's time for everyone to arrive.
Saturday: Sea of people, tide washing up to the cemetery. Colored chicks in cages, fistful of helium balloons in someone's weathered hand. Down the street a man sings "My Way," curses and urban legends be damned. Nobody does death like Filipinos. Pasta on tiny plates. Walk to the (not-so-)new convenience store with your sibling to get something cold to drink. Get back and think about the next time you'll eat your mother's cooking again. The city beckons.
Sunday looms in the back of your head.