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spiderpigI find Qing Ming Jie an extremely morbid festival. Especially for my family. This year the main point of talk was about where my grandmother wanted her urn (of ashes) to be placed.
I admit that I'm afraid of death. I don't like things associated with it, I don't like talking about it. To hear my parents and relatives talk about it so casually makes my skin crawl. Yes, my grandma will die someday, but I'd like to live in that world where nothing good ever dies. The world will stay unmarred and blissfully clean. Childish of me, I know.
Number 512. My grandfather's urn is placed there. All the remains of his body crammed into one small box. For this man I've never ever known, I feel undeniably sad whenever I stand in front of the rows and rows of urns. He's not even my paternal grandfather even, but there is that bond. When I look at him, I know that he is my grandfather. He would have put me on his lap and bounced me around. He'd hobble around with his walking stick, one leg gone. When I look at my paternal grandfather's picture, I don't have all those feelings. He just is only my ye ye. I do not explicably feel close to the ghost.
We didn't throw the seng puay today, that red crescent-shaped wooden piece. I used to throw it onto the ground in earnest, really wanting to see if gong gong had finished his meal of chicken, oranges and a nice cup of tea. Did it taste good? Did he want more time to savour my grandma, his wife's, labour of love?
The hellnotes and ingots gone in a blaze of fire, we left for the annual lunch.
My maternal grandma's a petite little thing, much smaller than my paternal grandmother, who's tall and somewhat imposing. They've been the only 'senior citizens' I've ever known, both my grandfathers died before I was born. Everything I know about their husbands, all the impressions I get, are from them. Both of them are in their mid-80s. They won't have long now. They both have to been looking for which number on the row they want their urns to be placed at. All my memories of them will be in those urns.
On the way to the cemetery today, my brother said, "I think Chinese deities are Satanic. They possess people." I couldn't believe that he said that. All I could think was, 'After going to church, you start to think like this?' So I told him, "Catholic saints and angels have 'possessed' people too, in a way." I don't mind him going to church. I believe in God very strongly. But I don't want him to start forgoing all these Chinese traditions. I respect all these old customs of burning joss-sticks and offering food. I don't want to see all these disappear. He even questioned me, "If you say that your faith in God is so strong, why do you not go to church?" Yes, I suppose it's wrong of me to not go to church every week. But why doesn't he think, "Your faith in God is strong enough that you don't need to go to church to affirm it." I don't see the sense in Protestants versus Catholics, Christianity versus Islam. Don't we all, in the end, believe in that same God?
I admit that I'm afraid of death. I don't like things associated with it, I don't like talking about it. To hear my parents and relatives talk about it so casually makes my skin crawl. Yes, my grandma will die someday, but I'd like to live in that world where nothing good ever dies. The world will stay unmarred and blissfully clean. Childish of me, I know.
Number 512. My grandfather's urn is placed there. All the remains of his body crammed into one small box. For this man I've never ever known, I feel undeniably sad whenever I stand in front of the rows and rows of urns. He's not even my paternal grandfather even, but there is that bond. When I look at him, I know that he is my grandfather. He would have put me on his lap and bounced me around. He'd hobble around with his walking stick, one leg gone. When I look at my paternal grandfather's picture, I don't have all those feelings. He just is only my ye ye. I do not explicably feel close to the ghost.
We didn't throw the seng puay today, that red crescent-shaped wooden piece. I used to throw it onto the ground in earnest, really wanting to see if gong gong had finished his meal of chicken, oranges and a nice cup of tea. Did it taste good? Did he want more time to savour my grandma, his wife's, labour of love?
The hellnotes and ingots gone in a blaze of fire, we left for the annual lunch.
My maternal grandma's a petite little thing, much smaller than my paternal grandmother, who's tall and somewhat imposing. They've been the only 'senior citizens' I've ever known, both my grandfathers died before I was born. Everything I know about their husbands, all the impressions I get, are from them. Both of them are in their mid-80s. They won't have long now. They both have to been looking for which number on the row they want their urns to be placed at. All my memories of them will be in those urns.
On the way to the cemetery today, my brother said, "I think Chinese deities are Satanic. They possess people." I couldn't believe that he said that. All I could think was, 'After going to church, you start to think like this?' So I told him, "Catholic saints and angels have 'possessed' people too, in a way." I don't mind him going to church. I believe in God very strongly. But I don't want him to start forgoing all these Chinese traditions. I respect all these old customs of burning joss-sticks and offering food. I don't want to see all these disappear. He even questioned me, "If you say that your faith in God is so strong, why do you not go to church?" Yes, I suppose it's wrong of me to not go to church every week. But why doesn't he think, "Your faith in God is strong enough that you don't need to go to church to affirm it." I don't see the sense in Protestants versus Catholics, Christianity versus Islam. Don't we all, in the end, believe in that same God?
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Date: 2005-03-28 07:08 am (UTC)