
My father’s final resting place was on a grassy knoll overlooking the Los Angeles skyline, 7,000 miles from his childhood home. Since he immigrated to California in the 1970s, he’d only returned twice to Xingang, a rural township in southern Taiwan, flying over eleven hours across the Pacific Ocean each way. These trips were also separated almost a decade apart. Once, for his mother’s funeral service before I was born. The last time, he brought my mother; me, nine-years-old; and my little…
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