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jolantruThey often come in droves, in groups or in pairs. Men, women, young and old – they walk down the paths with tools in their hands, shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun and fanning themselves from the heat. They often pick their way through the over-grown weeds – the la lang, the Cupid’s Shaving Brush and the love grass – and search for that one particular grave stone with the looks of lost drivers or lost travelers.
They only visit once in a year. That is the reason why they are easily lost in all the green and all the stones. Familiarity would come with frequent social calls - isn’t friendship or kinship built that way? Coldness comes when the gap becomes wide and words turn perfunctory, formal.
They often come in droves to clear the weeds away.
This year, it rains, soaking the dry earth and turning it into mud. Washing away the traces left behind by older visits – tea-lights, long-dead flowers, joss sticks already broken by age. It rains on the line of cars parked alongside the road, streaming down perfect paint jobs. It rains on the numerous colorful umbrellas, jostling their way through the difficult paths. It rains on the droves of people still carrying their tools and plastic bags of offerings and food.
The tears fall down on Qing Ming, mingling with the quiet tears of those who do remember and those who still understand kinship. The tears mingle with the rain, extinguishing the lit candles and drenching the sweetmeats so loved by the ants and the mynahs.
The tears fall down on those who simply stand aside, because it is just an obligation, nothing else. They would pick their way back to their pretty cars and return back to civilization with delicious cappuccinos and hot meals. No more sweetmeats, joss sticks, mosquito bites and unkind weather to sour their day. Only once a year.
But they often come in droves and I wonder why. I am just an observer, a little ghost. My headstone is already in pieces and I have no family left to remember me. So, I linger in the shade of the angsana trees, because the tree sisters are always the kindest and the most understanding of all. I watch the droves come, chattering away, even in the rain. They could be so noisy at times.
Sometimes, they bring little children with them, perhaps to make them remember tradition. The little ones whine and wiggle in their elders’ arms, uncomfortable. Some of them, the more daring ones, run ahead, touching everything in sight, collecting the lalang or the wild flowers. Their screams and shouts make me shrink back into the cool shade, thankful for the silence.
One or two might spot me and stop in their tracks, watching me intently. I try to smile and wave at them. Then, they take fright and run crying to their mothers or fathers.
The tears fall down, together with my own tears. I remember the old woman, the one with the gentle smile and graceful glide, who would bend down and light a candle at my headstone. I haven’t seen her for a while now. She is one of those who remember.
They often come in droves and the tears continue to fall on Qing Ming.
Check out this page by Crossed Genres: Post A Story For Haiti. Free fiction by sff writers - and if you like it, please donate generously.
For me, it's Doctors Within Borders: DONATE.
They only visit once in a year. That is the reason why they are easily lost in all the green and all the stones. Familiarity would come with frequent social calls - isn’t friendship or kinship built that way? Coldness comes when the gap becomes wide and words turn perfunctory, formal.
They often come in droves to clear the weeds away.
This year, it rains, soaking the dry earth and turning it into mud. Washing away the traces left behind by older visits – tea-lights, long-dead flowers, joss sticks already broken by age. It rains on the line of cars parked alongside the road, streaming down perfect paint jobs. It rains on the numerous colorful umbrellas, jostling their way through the difficult paths. It rains on the droves of people still carrying their tools and plastic bags of offerings and food.
The tears fall down on Qing Ming, mingling with the quiet tears of those who do remember and those who still understand kinship. The tears mingle with the rain, extinguishing the lit candles and drenching the sweetmeats so loved by the ants and the mynahs.
The tears fall down on those who simply stand aside, because it is just an obligation, nothing else. They would pick their way back to their pretty cars and return back to civilization with delicious cappuccinos and hot meals. No more sweetmeats, joss sticks, mosquito bites and unkind weather to sour their day. Only once a year.
But they often come in droves and I wonder why. I am just an observer, a little ghost. My headstone is already in pieces and I have no family left to remember me. So, I linger in the shade of the angsana trees, because the tree sisters are always the kindest and the most understanding of all. I watch the droves come, chattering away, even in the rain. They could be so noisy at times.
Sometimes, they bring little children with them, perhaps to make them remember tradition. The little ones whine and wiggle in their elders’ arms, uncomfortable. Some of them, the more daring ones, run ahead, touching everything in sight, collecting the lalang or the wild flowers. Their screams and shouts make me shrink back into the cool shade, thankful for the silence.
One or two might spot me and stop in their tracks, watching me intently. I try to smile and wave at them. Then, they take fright and run crying to their mothers or fathers.
The tears fall down, together with my own tears. I remember the old woman, the one with the gentle smile and graceful glide, who would bend down and light a candle at my headstone. I haven’t seen her for a while now. She is one of those who remember.
They often come in droves and the tears continue to fall on Qing Ming.
Check out this page by Crossed Genres: Post A Story For Haiti. Free fiction by sff writers - and if you like it, please donate generously.
For me, it's Doctors Within Borders: DONATE.
