It was ten in the morning. The fog burned off earlier here than other parts of the San Francisco Bay. The cemetery was full of life on this Mother’s Day, especially in the section where there were many Chinese. Their tombstones were much more colorful than others, with carvings of phoenix or dragon, and names written in both English and Chinese.
In front of a few graves, picnics were laid out with a variety of food like roast pork, fried dumplings and rice wine. Stick incense and bunches of spring flowers still in plastic wraps rose from the flower holders. Children skipped between the stones and played hide and seek. Loneliness was not in this cemetery, except for me, perhaps, who came by myself.
Little grubs had been making the carved letters on my step-mother’s grave their home. I poked the dried yellow crust away. One little worm fell out. Next year I have to remember to bring a brush.
