Free Alex Ko by Alex Ko

often.”
    He was talking to Dad, but he looked at me as he said it. I knew “we” would never do this again, but it reminded me that family didn’t just mean my parents and brothers. I had a great big extended family, and even if we didn’t see each other often, we still loved each other very much. I knew Uncle David was right: family was the most important thing. When Dad was gone, we would be the ones to remember for each other, to comfort each other, and to tell the stories of Dad’s life that would make us laugh and cry for decades to come. But for now, I was happy just to be in the same place as them, feeling the same sun shining on all our smiling faces, even Dad’s. I stared out at the ocean, and wished his life would go on forever, just like the sparkling water in front of me. But I knew it wouldn’t.
    We visited Oakland to see Po Po, who I’d only known when I was a baby. She was like a little-old-lady version of Dad, always sweet and smiling. We went all around Chinatown, where she lived, seeing the sights. Everyone seemed to know her, even if often she couldn’t remember them. But it was clear that she was well loved, and seeing how happy she was—even though she was sick—made Dad even happier.
    “This is very much like Hong Kong,” Dad told me as we wandered past bright red-and-gold awnings above stalls selling vegetables and live crabs in buckets. I slipped my hand into Dad’s, and for a moment I imagined we were in Hong Kong together. I knew we’d never make it there, but at least we had right now, and I could pretend.
    “There’s someone else we need to see,” Dad said one afternoon, after we’d left Po Po to take a nap. The whole family got in the minivan and drove out beyond the city limits.
    “Where are we going?” I asked.
    “You’ll see” was all he would say.
    When we pulled up at the cemetery, I understood. It took a while to get to the grave, because Dad had grown tired from walking around all day, but finally we stopped in front of a small tombstone in a large, grassy field.
    “This is where my father is buried,” Dad said. He placed a colorful bouquet of flowers in front of the stone, which was dark, weathered granite. Then he looked at the clear space next to it. “And this is where your father will be buried.”
    He put his arm around my shoulder. I looked at the innocent patch of grass. It was so fresh, green, and beautiful. It seemed impossible to believe that one day, Dad would be buried beneath it. A chill ran down my spine. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to think about this. The entire trip had been so normal. No one had cried, not since we’d arrived in San Jose, and Dad had been strong again. But there was no escaping the future.
    We stood silently, side by side, looking at the graves of our fathers. For the first time in my life, I began to understand what it felt like to be a grown-up. To be a man. My father had buried his father, and soon, I would bury mine. It was a universal truth, something every man must do someday, but I would have given anything to put it off for one more day, one more hour, even one more second with my father.
    When we returned to Iowa, Dad’s health collapsed. It was as though he’d used everything left inside him to give us that final, wonderful week in California. As Dad got sicker, my brothers and I spent more time outside the house so that Mom wouldn’t have to take care of us and Dad at the same time. Our next-door neighbors, the Abdos, were good friends of the family, and more often than not, Matt and I slept at their house. They had sons near us in age, and we would stay up late into the night talking, laughing, and beating each other at games.
    It felt weird not being at home—but truthfully, it felt weirder being there. The house I knew was a place full of laughter, music, and the scent of delicious food constantly wafting out of the kitchen. Now our house was full of whispered voices and quiet tears. I could