From the Land of the Dead, on a cliff by the sea, all is quiet except for the crashing surf below. At first glance, the place seems abandoned; lost and forgotten, an afterthought. Headstones lay helter-skelter, lacking order or symmetry. Some face down as though strewn by the wind in a game of Dominos. Piles of lava rock, crusted over in spots of frozen ash, dot the graveyard left as memorial markers for family trees. Some are inscribed with names and dates; others etched in a foreign language from immigrants migrating to a new world of promise, hope, freedom, and bounty. Remnants of broken bottles, empty jars, half-burned candles, and cherished mementos serve as reminders of loved ones. Red dirt stains the ground where weeds choke what few grass blades struggle to survive.

If headstones could speak, what stories would they tell? Would they recall how Chinese men, women, and children left everything behind in their native homeland in search of their dreams? Or that endless days of back-breaking work was worth a few dollars a month? That prayers were answered when cries were murmured? What if wishes came true and they danced here every night by the light of a full moon? Only the guardian of the graveyard knows for sure. It’s the lone cane frog; the sole living creature left behind to insure the deceased would pass safely into the spirit world. How symbolic!