My grandfather saw devils, right before he died. “They’re here, they’re here!” he exclaimed to my mum and cousins, who were in the room at the time. His fearful eyes were wide open. My cousins splashed holy water in the corner where he saw the devils. My grandfather looked to the right, where a statue of the Virgin Mary stood. It was this image that he took with him. His eyes fluttered, body shaking. And then he was gone.

I cried for the rest of the night. People were meant to see angels, not devils, before they died. Do people only see what they believe? What if they don’t know what they believe – what would they see then? Where would their soul go? Did my grandfather follow the Virgin Mary to heaven, or was he dragged away by the devils? I cried for the rest of the night.

The next night, we had the first Vietnamese service to commemorate my grandfather’s death. His dead body lay in the coffin, his hands so cold. My four-year-old nephew was confused. “How can he be in Heaven, if he’s in the church?” he asked. No one could answer him. While gathered around the coffin, one of my relatives remarked, “They say that right after a person dies, if their head is warm they’ve gone to Heaven; if their feet is warm, they’ve gone to Hell.” My grandmother kept caressing her husband’s head, trying to feel the warmth.

At the service, all the family members received the Ribbon of Sorrow. The spouse and children of the deceased wore a white hood; the grandchildren a white ribbon tied around their forehead and athe great-grandchildren a yellow ribbon. There was a ribbon set aside for my father, who I hadn’t seen for seventeen years.

I asked my brother why my grandfather saw devils. “He was a very cruel man,” my brother replied. Over the past few years he became quite religious, but before then, apparently he was mean. It was hard to know exactly what he was like, because of how little my grandmother and mother will talk about it, but it was obvious he had no love for my mother.

I asked my friend Dan what it meant, what people saw before they died. “It doesn’t mean anything, Lise,” he tried to tell me, “think of the amount of drugs he was on.” My grandfather had been diagnosed stomach cancer, a few months before he passed away.

I asked my sister why my grandfather saw devils. “It’s quite common,” she said, “they try to take you away even to the last minute.”

I don’t want to see devils when I die.

The next few nights were spent chanting prayers and blessing my grandfather with holy water. My father flew down from Sydney to take part in the services. The cover of the funeral program showed the dates of my grandfather’s birth and death. In Vietnamese it said V? Nhà Chúa, “Returned to God’s House.” My dad translated the phrase as “Gone to Heaven,” but the literal translation was more poetic. That’s where he is, I told myself, he can’t be anywhere else.

My grandfather passed away on Wednesday; we had the funeral Monday morning. It rained all day. “They say that it’s good luck when it rains on the day of a funeral,” one of my relatives said, imagining angels crying from the skies above. We donned the Ribbon of Sorrow for the last time. We cried while the coffin went from the church to the van, from the van to the cemetery, from the cemetery and into the grave. We cried as we threw flowers onto his coffin, as we chanted prayers, as we said goodbye for the final time. His body returned to the earth, his soul up to Heaven.

Rest in peace, ông ngo?i, rest in peace.

November 5, 2004.