Permanent Address

A niece she hasn't heard from in years 
sends an email, asking if she knows where 
her grandmother is buried. It's a curious 
question. Once, long ago, she knew with more 
certainty where to turn after entering the main 
cemetery gates— to the right, within sight 
of but not passing the mausoleum built by 
the wealthiest Chinese merchant in town 
for their matriarch. Then the footpath, 
leading to plots lower down the hill. But
that's the farthest her memory can take her 
now, removed from the physicality of place—
wet moss and mud underfoot, pines standing 
without comment on the periphery. These days, 
people prefer to bring the ashes of their 
dead to columbaria. No map— only some 
kind of index, alphabetical listing; rows 
of identical, numbered boxes.