I wonder what my grandmother is doing now.

I’m taking a nap when I think of the house my grandmother grew up in. It’s just outside my hometown, a two-hour drive on a good day. I used to visit it almost once a month when I lived in my home country. It was more of a courtesy visit—we checked the state of the house, trimmed the overgrown weeds in the garden, scrubbed dirt from the chafed, painted walls. We opened the windows to let the musty air out and the fresh breeze in, changed the sheets on the bed no one slept in, ate merienda, drank coffee, and greeted passing neighbors my family knew.

I didn’t spend my childhood in this house, so I don’t have much to recall of it. The most recent one, aside from the occasional visits, is the 40th day after my grandmother’s passing. Our family gathered at her house, along with a group of elderly women who sang prayers for the deceased. It was a quiet afternoon. The wind was coming in, and each pious grandmother murmured her condolences. When they started singing, the house came to life, shaken by the powerful chorus praying for my grandmother. My throat tightened as I became teary.

My grandmother—may God bless her—and I were never close, but I saw her every day because she had moved to the house across from ours. I would bring her hand to my forehead, a sign of respect for our elders, before leaving for school. Sometimes, we shared trivial conversations neither of us would remember.

After the benediction, we packed up, once again leaving the house that no one lived in. What I remember vividly, though, is the drive home. I popped in my earphones and played music. Sitting behind the front passenger seat, I watched the houses, shops, and cars pass by. My family’s chatter was almost like white noise in my stuffed ears. As we left the provincial city and merged onto the highway, the scenery changed, free from the buildings and congestion we had just passed.

The sky was still blue, but the sun, shining brightly to my left, had begun to set. I thought I would romanticize the ride, imagining scenarios like others do when they’re on the train, metro, or bus. But for a moment, I remembered my grandmother.

She would sit behind the driver’s seat, her left hand clasped onto the handle above her. She wasn’t much of a talker—she would sit quietly throughout the ride, minding her own business. If we asked her a question, she would answer, but her responses were clipped, almost diplomatic. Her face rarely showed expression unless she was speaking to people outside her family. Sometimes, when no one sat in the middle of the back seat, she would fold her legs to the side, still holding onto the handle above her.

I wonder what she’s doing now, if she’s doing well, if she’s guarding the house she grew up in, if she’s finally home.