Prayer

               The door to Aunty Sally’s cramped apartment swung shut, creaking as it trapped us

inside.

               We rarely saw Aunty Sally when we visited her. She was a tired woman. I caught

glimpses of her throughout the years, and on this particular occasion, I saw her down the hall, her

back turned. Her bony shoulder blades poked through her tattered tank top, her hips swaying

slowly. Her weight shifted from one skinny leg to the other, her bare feet clinging to the carpet

like claws as they carried her small frame. We didn’t say hello.

               We were careful as we slowly stepped around the sundry items that hid her floor: glass

collectable christmas trees from 1984, stacks of Korean pop culture magazines (even though

we’re Japanese), eccentric jade jewelry, wilted orchids. A mouse trap in the corner held captive a

few lizards, gray heads hanging from limp bodies, eyes closed, skin cracked and lifeless like

petrified trees. Cockroach carcasses littered her kitchen floor, shriveled like dead leaves. The

grease on the stove glistened. Old dishes piled high in the sink, intricate blue patterns reaching

towards the sky. The carpet released small clouds of dust as we allowed our shoes to sink into it.

The dust rose in swirls that danced in the Aiea sun that streamed in through the lace curtains.

               The walls closed in on me, and the floor was impossibly more crowded since the last

time we’d visited. I cautioned myself to stay only within the living room, away from the twisting

hallways where the maze would surely be more chaotic; I didn’t want to know what secrets the

other rooms hid. If I dared stray from the familiar Christmas trees, magazines, jewelry, and

flowers (which were slowly becoming more difficult to recognize as dust settled on them), I

would certainly be swallowed up into the abyss. My body would only be discovered years from

now, an artifact in a museum that specialized in the dangers of hoarding.

               But despite what a seemingly sad, suffocating, lonely place this was, the sweet smell of

incense kept us there. There was something special about it. Maybe its uniqueness was a result of

the mildew from the walls, mixing and intertwining together with the settled smoke. But the

more likely fact was that it was so familiar, that it was Aunty Sally’s incense.

               The lingering smell twirled and wafted throughout the room, kissing me as I made my

way over to the wooden chair in the corner. The table it sat in front of was the only place in the

room that still gleamed with pride. On it, a small golden bowl, a wooden stick, matches, a pile of

ashes, and Aunty Sally’s incense. I picked up the match, striking it against the box, feeling it

drag on the bumpy surface. I heard the fire ignite and crack. I carefully broke a stick of incense

in half, and lit the end, slowly waving it in the air to extinguish the flame. I placed the pieces

laying down in the neat pile of ashes: extinguished incense that had served its purpose, which

now lay in solace on the table, eternally at rest. I softly hit the wooden stick against the bowl

three times, the echo of the metal rang in my ears, rattling off the walls. When the sound began

to subside, I closed my eyes, clasped my hands together, and I prayed.

               After my final words, I left. I left the Christmas trees and the lizards and the magazines

and the dust. After being so desperate to escape the apartment from the moment I stepped inside,

I had expected to feel free upon leaving. But as I stood, back turned to the closing door, an empty

feeling washes over me. And when I heard the lock click behind me, I immediately long for the

comfort of Aunty Sally’s incense.