Wake

When the hearse arrives, we're told to kneel with our backs to it and to keep our heads down and our eyes closed. The scent of incense and burning joss paper perfume the air, waiting for the guest of honor to be escorted to her place.

Next to me, my cousin is still folding joss paper ingots. Her fingers crease the fold carefully, like she's making origami. We may be solidly middle class in this life, but by the gods we are going to be wealthy in the next.

Car doors slam and I'm back to keeping my head bowed. The standing fans are so loud that they muffle the footsteps of the pallbearers moving my grandma's coffin. I'm staring at my hands, studying the chip in my purple nail polish; I really need to change the color when I get home.

Suddenly we hear a bang, followed by a curse, and then the coordinator quickly shushes the man and apologizes to us, reminding us to keep our faces averted.

I can't help it.

Giggles bubble out of me, like a shaken can of Fanta Orange we always have for Chinese New Year's Eve reunion dinners.

My cousin tosses a paper ingot at me. "You're the worst," she hisses, smiling, like we aren't kneeling at Grandma's wake.