Chinese Joss papers, used in Buddhist funeral ceremonies.
“Grampa, we bought the house.”
It surprises me to see my aunts crying as hard as they are when we say this; I don’t know the statement’s significance. It sounds like a chant as we all say it over and over in unison as we use several sheets of yellow funeral paper money to wipe along the four edges of his coffin.
When my mom and I get back to the States, I ask her what that sentence means. She sighs and turns off the tv.
“The coffin is his new home,” she explains as she tears up. ”We were cleaning it and telling him we bought his home and brought it back for him,” she says as I tear up.
Eight weeks ago her father died. Two weeks ago, my dad’s father died.
“They are going out together,” my third aunt says without looking at me. I crack a forced smile as she quietly manages a sad chuckle.
It feels so weird; I was just here going through the same proceedings, wearing the same garb, chanting the same verses, except this time my brother has also flown to Taiwan. My dad is my paternal grandfather’s eldest son, and my brother my dad’s, and though my brother is essentially a stranger to our extended family overseas, tradition still dictates his ceremonial participation.
At the crematorium, the funeral director tells us to tell our departed it’s time for him to leave this world.
“阿 公, leave quickly,” we instruct as the coffin bearing his body goes into the fire. We are kneeling as we say this over and over, and my third uncle cries so hard he can’t stand after.
I can’t think about this anymore; it makes me too sad.