She wants it to be what?” Nina asks, sounding as shocked, sad, and defeated as everyone else. She and Asher have joined us at Mom and Dad’s house, having been able to cancel their honeymoon with a partial refund.
We’re in the thick of coordinating Pó Po’s funeral with Uncle Rupert on speakerphone contributing his thoughts. It’s been a few days since Pó Po passed but there’s a lot of planning to do.
“Fun,” Mom says. “Her words.”
In the kitchen, I skin an apple pear and slice it, dividing the halves into quarters, the quarters into smaller pieces. I set the bowl of fruit and a handful of forks on the table when Auntie joins us bearing two bouquets and a pastry box.
“Mae Yí-Pó dropped by. This one’s for the family,” Auntie says, placing one flower-filled vase on the kitchen counter. “And these are for you. Apparently someone came by the bakery to see if Mae Yí-Pó could get these to you.”
Auntie gives me a wink as she hands me a vase stuffed with pink peonies and the box.
I tentatively accept them.
“It’s from Asshole, isn’t it?” Nina murmurs, wiggling her eyebrows.
“It’s probably from Alisha and Randall or something,” I murmur, even when I know it isn’t. Alisha and Randall brought flowers over yesterday.
I carry the flowers and box to the counter and pluck out the tucked-in card.
Olivia—I’m very sorry to hear about your Pó Po. I know they can’t do much, but I hope these flowers and Swiss rolls (vanilla only, of course) will help provide the slightest bit of comfort. —Bennett
I dig my fingernails into my palm. After pushing him away, Bennett still has the heart to do this. A twinge of regret and guilt forms inside of me. We didn’t get to talk at the pitch, but he saw that I was there. I trace my thumb over his name and then tuck the note into my pocket and return to the table with the rolls.
My mom lifts a piece of paper filled with instructions from Pó Po on how she wanted her funeral to happen. In addition to sketching out a loose timeline, she had three requirements: the funeral needs to be on an auspicious day, she gets to choose most of her paper funeral offerings, and it should be a celebration of her life, which in Pó Po speak means “fun and magical.”
“Mom made it clear in her letter that she didn’t want everyone to be so sad, Rupert. I think we should honor it,” my mother says into the phone set in the center of the table. “She’s had her share of hardship during her life. There will still be traditional elements. This is Mom we’re talking about.”
“Okay, okay. Let’s do it her way,” Uncle Rupert agrees.
“Olivia, you’re in charge of figuring out the music,” Mom tells me.
“The noise signifies the end of the ceremony and the moment for lowering the casket,” Auntie clarifies. “The music has to be loud enough to frighten away spirits and ghosts.”
“I saw in a movie once that out-of-work actors are paid to cry loudly at funerals?” Asher asks. “Is that true?”
“Having someone else loudly crying encourages others to shed more tears, since by that point, they’ve already grieved so much. Traditionally, a lack of tears at funerals makes it look like the deceased wasn’t loved, and this disgraces the family,” Auntie answers. “But funerals are starting to become simpler and more modern.”
I only need to think for a moment before I know. “A saxophone. She always loved the sound because it reminded her of Paris.”
Auntie and Mom nod in approval.
“How appropriate!” Uncle Rupert says over the speaker. “Here’s a bone to chew on: Should we hire a magician?”
We look around at one another.
“She wants it to be magical, doesn’t she?” he adds.
“I think that’s exactly what she would’ve wanted,” I say, breaking the silence.
On the auspicious evening of the funeral, family and friends gather to wish Pó Po a safe journey into the afterlife. There are more than one hundred guests in attendance, everyone wearing various shades of white and cream. In what seems like minutes, the one hundred guests grow to what looks like a thousand, with a line of people forming outside waiting to come in and find their seats.
The magician Pó Po matchmade years ago jumped at the opportunity to take part. He quietly performs a dialed-down act in the corner of the chapel next to the casket. He reaches into the arm of his jacket and reveals a single white chrysanthemum. He does this one by one, handing everyone in the room a flower.
“Pó Po really would have loved this,” Mom whispers next to me.
“I wish she could’ve been here to see it,” I whisper back.
I take in the white streamers and silver balloons filling up the space. The room looks more like her ninetieth-birthday party, just as she wanted it to. I turn a hard candy with my tongue, the sugar dissolving slowly.
“The bitterness of the day is counteracted with the sweetness of the candy,” Auntie explained to me at some point in the past week.
I sneak a few more pieces of candy to try to offset the bitterness of life in general. It’s a tasty gesture, but it doesn’t work.
Hundreds of white, yellow, and pink lily and chrysanthemum flower arrangements are lined up in layers surrounding Pó Po. To the side of the flowers are baskets for food offerings. In them, I spot containers of rice, fruit, plastic-wrapped chicken, and pastries, gifts from the guests who offer these edible goods for Pó Po to take with her on her journey into the afterlife.
I’ve spent the past week learning about and executing traditions that I had never heard of before. While Nina stuffed small red envelopes with paper money and a quarter, which we’ll give to guests to ensure they get home safely and to spend and pass on the good luck and fortune, I put together white envelopes filled with candy that guests could consume once the funeral is over.
I look around at the crowd and spot Alisha and Randall. My heart bursts at the sight of them. Randall spots me first and nudges Alisha. Randall gives me a small wave while Alisha mimes a hug.
The funeral director clears his throat to command attention and breaks our gazes. He welcomes everyone and reads a brief biography of Pó Po, known to everyone else as June.