Memory of a Tomb Sweeping Day

"Come and collect money, father. Your granddaughter is sending you a lot of them," my father said in a way too lighthearted tone. "With all this money, you can buy a lot of nice things over there."

Not knowing what to say, I just made the ritualistic three deep bows. Part of me thought my father absurd, but I can't deny that the idea offered by the traditional customs is able to bring solace, that our deceased families are somewhere living a new life, and the rituals link us to each other.

After the rituals were completed, we negotiated other steps to place flowers on several other tombstones that belong to our deceased relatives.

It started to drizzle on our walk back to the bus station, adding the finishing touch to the conventional qingming scene. Though to wayfarers it wasn't exactly an ideal weather, my father seemed very much enjoying the excursion. He had then spotted some wild Chinese toon trees on the side of the road and went to pick the tender, edible leaves just emerging from the end of each branch. With great desperation I watched a rare bus rolling past on the distant highway.

The rain stopped after a while, the sky cleared up and the air was refreshing. "Maybe this is what 'pure brightness' is actually about," I thought. Maybe the festival demonstrates the time-honored ability to see a silver lining in everything, even the loss of life, to appreciate the revitalization of nature from a little fall of rain, to find strength in the loving memory of our deceased family members and carry on with our own life journeys.

The epiphany, however, was instantly forgotten when the bus arrived and brought me back to modernity, as I began a tedious monologue about being drenched and cold.

"Don't worry. At least you'll have scrambled eggs with fragrant toon leaves when we get home," my father said.