After touring KAIST led by a team of KAIST professors, we headed for the crematory about an hour away. It was, for the lack of better words, a modern marvel. Modern. Granite everywhere. The walls and floors were gleaming. Neat beyond description. So clean as if to say that this process of burning the dead bodies is just that. A process. Nothing more, nothing less. The coldness of the place angered me.

There was one large waiting room and off the hallway there were waiting rooms for the families while the bodies were being cremated. There must have been at least 8 furnaces, all of which had numbers on them. Each one was hard at work, burning the bodies of the departed, literally turning to dust every evidence of a life that had once been.

As the coffin was led into the furnace numbered 8, it dawned on me that it really was our last chance to imprint on our minds the physical dimensions of my brother filling that coffin. That was it. He was to be reduced to ashes after this process. The space that he occupied as a human being, a husband, a father, a brother, a colleague, and everything else that he was to those around him, was about to be reduced to that of an urn. Then the workers asked if we wanted the leftover bones to be preserved or to be pounded down to ashes. It seemed to me to be an incredibly cold thing to say to those who were so deeply grieving. There was such coldness that I perceived there, from the physical building made of stone to the attitude of those who worked there. I don't know if that is because it was their job, or if it was because they do not want to emotionally involve themselves in each process.

After about an hour, it was signaled to us that the process was over. We were led to where we were to see the body coming out of the furnace. I had such mixed feelings about this. Tom Kang, one of my brother's oldest friends whom I love dearly, led us away. "You don't need to see this." While I deeply regret not having been able to see my brother one last time before he was placed inside the coffin, I do not regret the decision not to see his body come out of the furnace.

His ashes were gathered in an urn that Yung Un had chosen. It was held by Kyurie and led outside in a procession of grieving people. Kyurie was the picture of calm. I wondered how a young girl of 18 could be so brave. We boarded the bus and drove to our family's burial plot on the hillside.

When we finally got there, I was finally able to hold the urn. All that was left of my brother was inside that urn about a foot across and a foot and a half long. It was still hot. The hotness of his ashes made me indescribably sad. He was never to be warm again. Ever. My brother, all of his almost 6', 200+ pounds of flesh, was reduced to this hot pile of ashes inside this beautiful green urn. As Kyurie sat holding the urn on her lap, I hugged it. It's still hot, Kyurie said. It was the first time I could hug my brother since I had gotten home. Finally. As I lay my right cheek on the hot lid, I broke into a loud wail. I  I couldn't stop and I couldn't let go of the urn. It was the second saddest moment of my life.

The weather had been cloudy all morning, but when we arrived, all the clouds cleared away. As if to say: this way into the next world. This way into the vast universe.

My brother is now surrounded
by these beautiful mountains.

We proceeded up the hill. The view from the hillside was breathtakingly beautiful.

We placed the picture of him smiling on the edge of the opening of the subterranean catacomb-like structure about 2-feet deep consisting of 8 sides for the 8 brothers of my grandfather's. Each brother had been allotted enough space to accommodate all the urns of his direct descendants. On each stone that covered the 8 sides, the names of the descendants had been carved. Including mine, my husband's and my children's. It was a bit of a comic relief, seeing the American names of my family among all the Chinese characters. My family will not be there after we depart this earth, neither will my sister's family. We married out of the family. The names carved on the stone slab were mere reminders that we were daughters, not sons, of the Shin family.

We placed the urn inside. Each one took a turn to say their last good-byes. I kissed the urn many times as my brother was known for his kisses. Octopus kisses. My last physical good-bye to my brother. It was my third saddest moment of my life.

My father spoke for a while. I really think this was his way of coping. He was talking proudly of what his son had achieved in his short life, much more than he himself achieved in his long life.

My mother, on the other hand, was quiet.

When the heavy granite cover was placed back onto the top of the catacomb, I thought about how his hot ashes will eventually cool. And how cold my brother will be under all that stone and inside the earth. He was a hot guy in his life. He had always been so hot that my dad, when he got too cold in winter in our drafty old house of my childhood, he would climb into bed together with my brother just to warm up. It seemed to me to be such a weird contrast. His hot body in life and as ashes and the cold stone catacomb.

We spent that night at my brother's beloved house. HE. LOVED. THIS. HOUSE. It sits at the foot of a hill. It's serene there. His garden has all of his touches, from the persimmon tree to the manicured pines. His beloved dog, Bonnie, greeted us. Poor thing. Doesn't know where his human dad is. She paced along the fence like she always does, looking for something or someone.

My mother and I slept badly that night. We split a Valium pill. This was maybe the 3rd time in my life that I had to take it. But this night, we really needed it. My mother was having an anxiety attack, and I just couldn't put the day behind.

When my mother's breathing finally became rhythmic, I slowly drifted into sleep next to her, listening to the gentle sound of her quiet snoring.