Our father was forty-one when he passed away. We buried him in Cypress Hill next to his grand-parents, with a small but pious grave-marker that indicated he was a loving husband and doting father.  Neither of these things were lies, but it felt surreal looking at the stone beside my brother and mother.

When dad passed away in the traffic accident during the hurricane, we were all unprepared for the events and what would follow. He was young, and hadn’t thought ahead enough to set up a life insurance plan, or even a write out a Living Will. His bank account was frozen, taunting us with the checks that would soon bounce and gain penalties on them from the billers they were supposed to be sent to. The bankers seemed to have no sympathy for our mother’s plight, nor her knowledge of what companies took care of what services to run the house.

The fact that both our parents were quick spenders of his high-dollar paychecks ensured they had very little in the savings account, and mother hadn’t worked since Sungmin and I were born.

Almost all of the savings went into the remainder of the bills that would need to be paid to keep our house another month, and our possessions as well, but nearly everything was purchased on credit cards, and now belonged to the bank if we couldn’t pay our debts off. There wasn’t even enough saved where we could bury our father properly.

I learned at this young age that even funeral homes were ripping off the common man. Thousands and thousands of dollars for caskets, services, burials, wakes, flowers, and more. We simply couldn’t afford it.

We relied on the government to help bury this beloved member of our family. Since he served a single tour in the military, they offered us an honorable service for him. They would pick him up from where he was identified in the hospital, ship him into a cemetery close by that was on the ‘okay’ list, and put him in the ground for us.

But there was a catch.

Of course, right?

We were not part of the ‘service.’ We didn’t even see the casket lowered into the dirt under my shiny dress shoes. I had no way to see him one last time, as any part of a goodbye. He had been identified by his teeth and wallet, and already done away before we could even have a Wake.

In my pessimistic mind I wondered if they even performed what they called the ‘honorable service.’ In movies and the like, brothers-in-arms put the dead in the graves wrapped in their country’s flag. Guns fire off, signalling the last send-off as they salute and march in the cemetery, while the widow and family look on. We hadn’t seen any of this, so I had no proof anything was taken care of.

I didn’t even have solid proof my father was in the ground beneath my feet.

Seeing what was left of the Maverick gave meak hope, but the hospital reports of blood work and dental identification squashed those out. Dad wasn’t on an island laughing somewhere, despite my childish daydreams. I would never receive a postcard that read, ‘Wish y