After the death of my cousin, my aunt kept asking, “But where is he now?” I wanted her to take comfort in the catechism answer: “His body is buried, his soul is with God.” But she kept asking and never found him. Years later, I am asking. I am looking for you. Last week in the communion line at church, I stared into the red carpet, looking for you as I moved through the exact space occupied by your coffin at the funeral. I looked for you in the vestibule, under the statue of St. Joseph, in the churchyard, at the cemetery where the earth claims your thick hair, your calloused feet, your white teeth showing a little wear on the bottom front, the gold crown in the back, barely used. I have questioned the branches of cedar trees near the spot where your soul took flight, listened to the voices of birds, flitting between there and here, argumentative and ecstatic. I have looked for you in silvery, slanted threads of rain, connecting heaven and earth. Dark nights I’ve looked up to the moon and surveyed the spaces between the stars. I have seen the back of your head in front of me on planes, your car coming toward me on the highway. I have studied the face of a rose, taken it apart petal by petal, rubbed its velvety essence against my cheek, trying to unlock some message from the earth, some news of you. I’ve eaten a late-summer nectarine, hoping to absorb some wisdom along with the succulence from the underground well. I have examined the pencil marks you made in the margins of books to point out words that spoke to you. I have sensed your touch in the breeze that ruffles my hair as it moves the clouds across the sky. And yesterday when I brought my laundry in from the line, I buried my face into the silkiness of my white slip and almost felt your presence in the fresh scent that comes from the sun, or God-knows-where.