Paper money and plastic houses crumpled in the embers, folding into gray wisps of their former selves. A flurry of ash flew across my vision, dancing its way to the heavens.

Before that, I ran my fingers across a cold stone engraved with the name of an ancestor I never knew.

Before that, we trudged through sludge toward the resting place of my great-grandfather, our shoes so encased in mud that they resembled Mickey Mouse’s.

Before that, we bounced along in the rickety bus that carried my extended family and the ashes of my recently deceased grandfather.

Before that, my parents told me that my grandpa needed to visit his father’s grave one last time before his own descent into the ground.

Before that, I watched the lifeless body of the old man wheel into the cremation chamber, sprinkled with the tears of everyone he once knew.

Before that, I did not cry.

Before that, I listened – but not really – to the stranger whose speech sounded like he actually knew my grandfather.

Before that, we awoke at dawn for the funeral I did not yet believe was possible.

Before that, my relatives’ empty faces confirmed what everybody had feared.

Before that, my grandfather weakly smiled at me through clouded eyes from his hospital bed.