Halabeoji's Ashes by Hyunji Choi (14, Philippines)

My halabeoji’s urn was marbly 
like a flower vase. Days before he died, 
when he needed to stand, 
umma and I helped him up, umma’s cheek 
against his skinny arm while Aunt Jiyoo
told me to stay outside his room.
She said he had lost half his body weight
and he looked as light as a child,
how she bathed him in warm water.

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Halabeoji’s urn was small and cold,
it began to warm in umma’s hands 
as she held it, under the blue fir tree, stroking it. 
It must have made that kind of gritty iron noise
when umma and Aunt Jiyoo pushed it
onto the shelf. Halmeoni, appa and my brothers
would be here any minute
and umma wanted to see
her father’s ashes, as if then
she would finally get to know him.
In the cold charnel house,
with everyone else present, umma worked
at the top, it gave and slipped off and there–,
the actual matter of halabeoji’s being: small,
unrecognizable; stained fragments of bones
like pieces of varnished wood;
his wrinkled fingers, which used to braid my hair
had turned as white as flour.
Umma looked at the swirl of shards:
was that a bone of halabeoji’s sturdy arms,
was that from the pelvis he bent
to carry me on his back, was that from his feet?
Umma looked at him, photographs
and ashes were all that he left–
ashes as white and fleecy as a hairball 
of threaded yarn.