The Astonishing Color of After(34)

When she isn’t looking, I gather the used leaves in my fist and wrap them in a rag for later.





35





We head out again in time for the evening service at a Buddhist temple, one that Feng says is very important. Walking behind my grandmother, I can see the tension in the set of her shoulders. Her hand slides along the top of the balcony, dropping away only when she nearly runs into the glittering silk of a spider’s web.

This temple is built of clean white stone and muted green roofs. Dragons and other mythical creatures crown the top edges of the eaves, gazing down like guards. One dragon narrows its eyes.

I blink hard, try to send the image away. I can’t shake the feeling that it’s watching me. Warning me.

A nun in brown robes bows to all of us, presents us with sticks of incense. “Amituofo,” she says, pressing her palms together and dropping her chin to her chest. “Amituofo,” her voice so calming, as if those four syllables smooth out the wrinkles of the world, set everything right again.

“Popo says they used to always come here together,” Feng tells me. “This is the temple where your mother spent the most time. This is where her spirit is.”

That last part snaps my attention back into sharp focus. “What does that mean?”

Waipo points into a small room where a golden bodhisattva sits in a glass case, stretching from floor to ceiling, glowing like a piece of treasure. On either side of it: hundreds of wooden plaques, painted the color of marigolds.

“Those yellow tablets bear the names of the dead,” says Feng. “Including your mother’s. She knows her name is written here. This is where her spirit lingers.”

Where her spirit lingers.

My eyes sweep the room, looking for the slightest bit of red, hunting for a feather, a shadow, anything.

My mother my mother my mother.

There’s the sudden thunder of a low drum rumbling across the floor. The round tone of percussive bells arching in the air, rainbows of sound. And then a monk’s amplified voice rises up like a wave. A hundred voices follow in a chorus, tracing the ups and downs of a song without a real melody.

“They’re chanting sutras for the ones who have passed. Especially those still within the forty-nine days,” Feng says.

I shake my head, not understanding. “Forty-nine days?”

“After a person’s death, they have forty-nine days to process their karma and let go of the things that make them feel tied to this life—things like people and promises and memories. Then they make their transition. So the temple will keep each yellow tablet for forty-nine days. After that, they’re burned.”

The thudding in my head matches the thudding against my ribs. “What transition?”

“Rebirth, of course,” says Feng.

Forty-nine days. Is that how long she’ll be a bird? How many days has it been? There can’t be much time left. I can’t believe nobody told me about this sooner.

Let go of the things that make them feel tied to this life. But I don’t want her to let go. I don’t want her to forget about us. Forget me.

Waipo gathers all our incense in a bouquet, dipping their tips into a well of flames. The wispy smoke hangs in the air like cobwebs. They look nothing like the black incense hidden in my drawer, the black smoke of the memories unfurling.

Feng and Waipo kneel upon the low, cushioned bench, like they’ve practiced this. Like they come here together, and often. Their eyelashes meeting their cheeks, chins bowing in sync.

I wish Feng weren’t here. The thought has been burning quietly in a far corner of my mind all day, but now that it’s risen to the surface, I can’t tuck it away again. Doesn’t she have better things to do? Why is she always tagging along? Does Waipo invite her because it’s weird to be around me by herself?

The two of them kneeling together there… it’s perfect and picturesque, like something Axel would paint. If I joined them, I would only make it look odd. This strange American girl, who doesn’t really speak the language of her ancestors. Her hair not dark enough, and hands gripping the incense uncomfortably. Her faith uncertain.

I wish I felt more Taiwanese. I wish I knew these traditions, knew what to do.

I don’t belong here. I should just walk away.

Waipo turns her face toward me. “Lai,” she says, beckoning earnestly.

And so I kneel on her other side, coming down hard and clumsy, my shins aching from dropping too heavily onto the bench.

It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter if I don’t belong, if I’m a fish out of water here. I just need to find the bird. I need to get to her before the forty-nine days are up.





We wind our way back out into the boiling air. I’m still trying to mentally count out the passage of time when I hear the screech, shrill and high-pitched overhead. People around us are shading their eyes, tipping their heads back. Waipo and I turn our faces toward the low sun, and I think I see the last of a red tail disappearing around the edge of a building.

The bird.

My heart’s slamming and fingers are trembling and there’s smoke stinging my eyes, but I can’t close them, can’t miss her if she circles back around.

I need to get to her, talk to her. Why is she flying away? Why won’t she come down and speak to me, like when I was back at home? The urgency and longing wrap around me in swirls of aureolin and splotches of violet.