Wednesday, April 10, 2013

CHINA

A narrow path ran between the rice paddies an hour outside(a) of Xiamen, a southern city in China. It meandered up a mountain shaded by broad, green leaves. My eccentric and eclectic family trudged along this dirt trail under the blazing summer solarise ? grandpa and grandma wearing loose traditional Chinese clothing, my mother, brother and I melting in our shorts and t-shirts. We exasperate our way to the grave, ducking under branches and swatting at gnats that buzzed around our heads. As we plodded into the clearing, we gazed up at the fifty-foot granite slab engraved with scarlet characters that marked the grave of my mother?s gran.

By then, my mother had begun to cry, salty tears streaming down her face and dripping from her chin onto the small-scale altar that held a pot of sand for the smoking cense sticks, a faded photograph, and some shriveled, brittle flowers. With reverence and familiarity, she kneeled on the dusty ground, clutching the incense sticks between her hands and bowed one-third times before the grave. She beckoned my brother and me to join her and handed us each a few smoking sticks. Together, we kneeled and touched our heads to the ground.

I leaned with the incense between my fingers, trying to mimic the smooth good will with which my mother bowed. She burned stacks of feathery paper bills to image the wealth of her amah in the afterlife and set remove strings of firecrackers to frighten away any demons that threatened her grandmother?s soul.

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Next to her, I stood gasping in the blue-gray smoke from the flames, throttling on the overpowering smell of incense.

Watching my mother decimate weeds and dead flowers as she cleaned the gravesite, I realized that although I had felt awkward partaking in the ritual, part of...

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