14th day of the first month of the year Gui Mao

Funeral Procession

It is now the 15th day of the first month, February 5th. We are already on the train back to Inner Mongolia. It’s half-past midnight, feeling somewhat dazed yet somewhat awake. As we approach the destination, without any particular thought, I decided to write down this account.

On the Gregorian calendar, it’s February 4th, the 14th day of the first lunar month, at half-past four in the morning. I was awakened by my sister’s phone call, knowing that it was time for the funeral procession. So I quickly got up and, still in a daze, walked with my sister to the funeral parlor. Seeing that our apartment complex was the only one brightly lit, with many, many people gathered around. There were huge wreaths, cold lights, and white mourning clothes.

The winter morning in Hebei was quite friendly. My mother and I sat in a vehicle, my mother dressed in white mourning clothes, holding a wooden stick wrapped in white paper. It seemed that there were no cars clearing the way for the funeral procession in the countryside, only convenient electric tricycles.

Thus, the funeral procession turned into a procession of tricycles.

Like me, my mother didn’t understand the details and customs of the funeral, so we could only obediently listen to the instructions of the elderly: what to do at what time.

I don’t know what mentality I had while observing this event, but I watched the vast procession and the lively crowd without feeling any atmosphere of sadness. Even after my grandpa turned into a small square box, it didn’t evoke much emotion in me. Instead, the rare gathering of relatives made me feel comforted and happy. For example, meeting my two sisters was much rarer than before, and similarly rare was the meeting between my father and my aunt’s husband. The two of them have always existed in my mind in some kind of spatial dislocation, and meeting them now made me feel somewhat dazed.

The funeral procession lasted for over an hour before ending. We went to my grandpa’s grave, expecting it to last for several hours. When we arrived at the grave, I was surprised to see an excavator digging the soil—is such a massive operation really necessary for a small box of ashes?

We waited on the side while the grave was being dug. The cold wind at five in the morning made me feel a bit numb. Someone nearby lit a fire in a straw field, and I hurried over to warm myself by the fire. This burning sensation reminded me of the feeling of burning fires during the Lunar New Year in Bayannur.

The pit should have been dug quickly. Next to the pit, I saw from a distance a huge coffin.

Although I had never seen a coffin in person, I had a rough idea of its size. Describing it as “huge” indicates that it was very uncommon in size. It was much deeper than I had imagined, probably twice the height of a regular coffin. Its appearance was very similar to a European-style coffin (the only large coffins I’ve seen are from abroad), with a slanted design.

Over a dozen people surrounded the coffin, groggily watching as the box of ashes was placed inside and the lid was closed, with someone using a hammer to nail it shut. After some knocking and hammering around the coffin, the excavator lifted the coffin and placed it in the pit.

It must have been a very large pit.

During the burial, the excavator was still used, while my mother and others burned paper opposite the coffin. In the dim morning, the burning paper money was blown up by the hot air, floating tens of meters into the sky, accompanied by faint cries. Finally, I had some feeling of visiting the grave.

By the time we returned, it was still my mother and I in the same vehicle. There doesn’t seem to be much to narrate about what happened afterward. I hurriedly booked a train ticket and hurriedly returned.

I wanted to describe my grandpa’s life or some interesting anecdotes, but I still know too little about him, too unfamiliar. I can’t present the real him, nor do I believe that the grandpa described by my mother is the real grandpa. There are too many things I don’t know about his eighty-four years of life…

Written on the K1115 train.