“Don’t forget about me when you become a saint,” my mother said. “That’s your destiny, you know.”

I believed it, too, and I didn’t mind getting beat up by a fat boy named Kenneth for it. Kenneth was my third cousin. He threw an uppercut to my chest because he didn’t want to hear me talk Jesus (but it was a Good Friday, you see, and there was yet another crucifixion reenactment on the street, and everyone was bowing their heads as Jesus passed by — so I had to educate him). Kenneth, the devil’s son that he was, wouldn’t stop pointing his fingers at the bloodied Jesus and laughing — loudly, with his mouth wide open and all his teeth showing. I did what was necessary. “Shh! Jesus will punish you for laughing at His sorrow,” I said.

“Why don’t you shut up!” Kenneth said. “You better laugh, too!”

“I won’t join your sin,” I said.

And then just like that, bam! right in the middle of my chest.

“Jesus will forgive you,” I cried. “When I become a nun, I will pray for you, too.”

The casket room has cathedral ceilings and maroon paisley wallpaper, and it looks like a ballroom at a Holiday Inn. Inside, Buddhist death chants hum through Bose speakers behind the biggest wreath, an idea of the aunts — “to set the right mood.” They hope their sister’s spirit will recognize the chants, the same ones that played during her final days, calling her spirit to leave the body willingly and begin the journey of reincarnation. Tracy and her sisters do not approve but they are kept busy dissuading relatives from posing next to the casket or zooming the Nikon in on their mother’s face. “Have mercy, please,” they say, directing folks to the ceremonial area.

Beside the casket, Grandma Lanh peers at Auntie Men’s body, leans her forearm onto the side wood panel and then collapses into a mid-air kneel. “Oh why did you have to die so early?” she moans. “What sins did you commit to cause Buddha to take your life?”