I beat him endlessly, the man who
once expressed his sexual interests
in my body when I was nine, and
continued to do it steadily. He followed
me many times, and sneaked into my ears
some words uncomfortable to hear.
He was half-awaked and half-dreaming,
lunatic man whose insanity many of
my relatives had mentioned of. But then,
I became careless toward his actions and
his attitudes after I had known that
he was just a delirious, lonely human
being, a modern Frankenstein, for whom
I should have shown a little bit of merciful
affection. I stopped beating and paying
him more attentions. 

One day, my grandmother died.  He came
and brought with him a steal-made coffin,
a golden one with real gold plated around
the trims of the coffin. Nobody could
afford such an expensive coffin and never
had I seen such a beautiful coffin before.
He insisted to have my grandma’s body
put in it, but none of the members in my
family listened to his idea.  Finally, she
was buried in a regular wooden coffin.

The last day or mourning, I was wearing
the white dress and was lamenting in front
of her wooden coffin. In front of the house,
on the other side of the street, a crowd of
Cho-Lon Chinese was performing the kung-fu
art; they were a mix of burly, muscular men
with elegant, pretty women jumping, climbing,
tumbling and hanging themselves in all kinds
of tricks and juggling artifices.

At the next few blocks, another Chinese
crowd was carrying out another funeral process.
Scattered around were the remains of children
with broken limbs, legs and some unwanted
fetuses; all were bundled up in burial, white
linen and being put in little wooden coffins.