Ever since I left the Philippines to try my luck overseas, I’ve been lugging around a series of mismatched plastic-covered photo albums and scrapbooks I call the Book of Life and Death. When I start a new album, I tape a ribbon to the center page, splitting the photo book into two chapters: life and death. I fill the pages of each album with snapshots of those who have just taken their first breath and those who have taken their last.

Without my mother’s help, my collection would be incomplete. Whenever someone is born or dies back home, my mother grabs the elbow of the person with the camera and begs, “Don’t forget reprints for Marybelle.” Then she wraps the photos in plastic and sends them to wherever I’ve been working—Lebanon or Saudi or Hong Kong.

At first she didn’t understand my albums. But many years ago, when I brought Volume Two home during my annual visit, my mother plopped down onto the milk crate by the kitchen window and studied each page. After a while, I blurted, “Say something, Ma. Don’t just sit there and cry.” She flipped between a page in Death, then turned back to Life, back again to Death. She grimaced a smile, “It’s too beautiful.”