I remember laying across chairs during my father’s wake.  Machiko Skye saw me from afar and trotted down to me, while holding a small pack of Skyflakes, one of her favorite snacks.

Fondly, she asked, “Tita Carla, may I sit here?”  For a two-year-old, her speech is close to impeccable.

“Sure, Machiko,” I replied.

So she sat by my head while I curled up tighter to fit in just two chairs.  She was eating silently, taking quick glances at me.

And then she started to stroke the top of my head, slowly and gently, and started singing:

Don’t you worry
Don’t you worry, child
See, heaven’s got a plan for you

She said, “I don’t know the other words, Tita.”

I don’t think I needed to hear more.

Tomorrow, it will be two months.  I will never get used to this.