Fire and Ashes

By: Shanchan

The bright fire flared before me, intensifying the sun's warm rays on a humid summer afternoon. A tombstone lay beyond the fire, covered in dirt and ashes. Gently curving, it seemed dry and rough, but I was too bound by fear and reverence to reach out and brush my fingertips against its surface. The fire continued to burn, bringing a slight physical pain and an endless flow of memories.

My grandmother's grave stood on a small hill near the town where she had been born. A winding dirt road led to the hillside where a small, obscured path cut through the foliage and led up to the place where her ashes were laid to rest nearly twelve years ago.

We stopped by a town on the way to the hillside to buy some incense and paper money which we would burn as offerings to our ancestors. Choosing the perfect paper flowers as well as the perfect incense and paper money seemed almost mystical. I watched as the adults in our party busied themselves with deciding what to purchase. I didn't understand the details, but I wanted to be part of everything. After all, I too loved my grandmother dearly.

As I stared out the window, watching my ancient home, the taxi-van drove towards the hills. People walked along the dusty dirt roads, not even bothering to look up as our van passed them. Dilapidated concrete walls surrounded many homes and gave off a sense of poverty and neglect due to the slowly peeling whitewash. Verdant rice patties were in bloom; their flowers drooped in puffs from the tips of the countless plants. As we turned a corner, the dust rose up, and I could smell its memorable scent: a choking sensation mixed with the smell of time which lasted for a split second before transforming into a nearly fragrant smell of earth and existence. I gave myself to the scent and closed my eyes as the taxi-van came slowly to a stop.

Climbing out of the taxi, we began to hike up the hillside. The path was familiar since I had been there merely two summers ago. However, I did not remember the way and stopped often to ask directions. As we trudged through the foliage, heat from the sun enveloped us and drained our strength. Unlike the rest of my family, I was dressed for the weather: white sandals, jean shorts and a plain, cotton T-shirt; however, as I climbed up the steep hillside, countless sharp shrubs cut into my flesh, drawing blood which seeped slowly into the gashes.

By the time we reached the grave located in a small opening under the trees, small cuts covered my legs and beads of sweat rolled by my eyes. As my pupils adjusted to the shade, I noticed a smaller tombstone erected near my grandmother's. Startled, I began asking whom it belonged to when I remembered that my great aunt died shortly after my previous visit two years ago.

My eldest uncle bowed to the grave and lit a stick of incense which he stuck into the ground. He then handed another stick to my aunt. As the smell of fire and incense saturated the air, our family stood solemnly before the small tombstone. When the incense finished burning, a stack of pseudo-money was taken out and set aflame.

The flames flickered wildly as they beckoned me with their mesmerizing dance. The vibrant oranges and yellows emitted an intense heat which pressed against me; and I felt my skin burn under its caress. The thin paper money slowly curled into black ashes as the fire floated past, reminding me vaguely of the trail of death seen in movies when famine or disease strikes. As I became more and more entranced with the dancing flames, memories of loved ones floated past my vision, blurred by heat and sweat. I saw my great aunt's figure, bent by the stress and pressures of life, stumble out of her small room and present me with some spending money. I saw my grandfather, sitting on a chair, using his paper fan to cool himself in the summer heat. His old, trembling voice resonated in my mind as I remembered him telling me why he loved fans so much. I saw my parents, sitting on the sofa after dinner, watching a Chinese sitcom, and enjoying the time they shared. Most of all, I saw the flames through the haze; flames which hungrily devoured the paper offerings like time devours our lives.

Closing my eyes, I suddenly realized that what the beads of sweat on my cheeks were, in fact, my tears. Sweat, tears, heat, ashes, breath, voices, light. Time devours all, and in the end, only traces are left of what had once been; traces like my grandmother's grave.