Viewing Service

From the Philippines, my cousin FaceTimes me, shows me

the coffin in Tito's bedroom. I stare at my phonetrying to say anything, but nothing follows. All I can think of

is that I don't remember the Bisaya word for head,    for body. After a minute, the FaceTime video movesinto the dining room. My parents

appear on the screen and grin, as if ready for a selfie—Hi, Yan,they greet me from oceans away. My mother's eyes    carry sacks beneath them, souvenirs from jet lag

and weeping. Flies hover behind them over a plateof sliced mangos.

And I think: What is the Bisaya word for fly, for fly home    now? I notice my parents are glancingat the corner of the screen, where a small box contains

    their image. Dad runs fingersthrough his hair. Mom straightens her blouse. They wereonce children on this island, nibbling

on banana-leaf rice, their shoulders rubbingagainst other shoulders on the Jeepney. Now, they only fly

home for the funerals. I take a screenshot of them. I try

to remember the Bisaya word for remember. After we hang up,I type up a message in English. I won't press send. I willthink about Tito. His rice-white teeth, his hairless arms.

How he told me stories about ogres and white ladies,

how, on the microphone, he'd sing: talk in everlastingwords and dedicate them all to me,

how, at the airport the last time I saw him, he walked

slowly with bones heavy and burdensome as a church.