Long Grief

When my father was buried, cremation
was not yet the common practice it is today.

So he is buried in the northwestern section
of the Baguio Cemetery. But wait, all of a sudden

I'm not so sure. I think he's buried in a crypt, meaning 
his coffin with he himself in it, or what used to be 

the shell of himself dressed in his best dark suit 
and tie down to his best polished shoes, was slid into

a cement rectangle, then sealed, then given a coat
of white paint and a marble marker. I can't remember

who decided on any of these things, since I was young
and petrified by this colossal, new grief. There was a brief

argument about what direction he should face, as if it would 
change anything if his head pillowed on satin pointed toward 

the mountains and the space between, where the sun 
went down each evening. You might think this is just another 

poem, again, about grieving my father's death. It's been 
nearly five decades but I can still see his hands, laid one atop

the other; and between them, a rosary broken to signify how, 
despite our sadness, the rest of us weren't ready to follow.