Aunt Liu taught May yesterday how to fold incense paper into ingots. The glossy paper creased effortlessly in her hands, and May soon got hold of it: the technique was not much different from the origami roses she learned in sixth grade art class. They sat on the sofa the whole morning piling the silver ingots into a large blue tote bag, the one that Ming used for grocery shopping everyday. Like a small mountain of metallic dumplings, May thought. 

“Let me check on the food. Just keep putting them into the bag. Okay May?” 

She gave a silent nod and watched Aunt Liu as she slid the squeaking kitchen door open and carried out several enamel plates. They were always hidden so meticulously in the cupboard that when they did appear, the thin, golden cloisonne lining rendered foreign in the room with quivering wallpaper. The dinner table was stripped out of its cotton tablecloth and pushed against the wall as a temporary niche. Grandpa’s black and white portrait sat solemnly in the middle. Before him a feast for one. 

May never saw Grandpa smile like that. It must have been a picture of him when he was much younger, before diabetes and daily insulin injections completely took over his life. 

On the delicate tableware were common dishes, scenting the air with an eerie mixture of braised pork and burnt incense. The bowl of rice was shaped into a dome, with a pair of chopsticks stuck right in the middle. May remembered how she was always told not to put chopsticks straight up like that. Now she saw why. 

Grandma occupied the other side of the sofa with her hands on her knees. Occasionally she bowed down and patted her ankle, but most times her vacant gaze was fixed on some obscure point among the guests. Some distant relative came up to her trying to offer a few words of condolences out of courtesy, but the blank gaze behind her murky glasses that wrote “Do I know you ?” dissuaded any further conversations. 

Grandpa and Grandma hated each other. Not a single day of their marriage went without quarrels over the most trivial matters — an overcooked steam sea bass at dinner or a misplaced towel in the bathroom. It was probably from them that May picked up all the Shanghainese curses. The mundane arguments, tolerations, and agony were so ingrained that when the men she actively hated finally took his leave, her life was as well left deserted. The unrelinquished anger had now been left with no one to direct to. 

Ming was at the door receiving the guests. Smiling, as they patted her shoulder with consolation. May’s eyes followed her mother as hugs and condolences of “I’m so sorry for your loss'' were exchanged. Some noticed May and hugged her too. Her body felt stiff in the arms of people whom she barely knew. 

More relatives and family friends arrived. The narrow, low ceilinged living room was not designed to accommodate so many. Various shades and textures of black mingled in the cramped space like a terrible handmade sweater in completion. Ming led some of the guests into the bedroom to sit. May hated when strangers sat on her bed in their heavy, dirty winter coats, but she decided that it was not the right occasion to protest. 

Soon the guests found it difficult to insert their incense sticks into the lotus patterned porcelain bowl on the niche. Ashes fell on the wooden surface and drifted over the food. Would Grandpa mind ? No one seemed to notice. 

Words were spoken to the portrait as people bowed. A few tears shedded. 

Then more rounds of bows. 

An old radio sat next to the table, projecting recorded Buddhist scriptures. May doubt if anyone could really decipher its meanings, but the ritual was to be kept, and soon it reduced into an ambient murmur in the background. 

“Oh Ming, my dear ! Are you okay ? ” 

 A high-pitch voice pierce through the dull, misty living room. It was Great Aunt Lan, Grandpa’s youngest sister. She gave Ming a huge hug and her loose black chiffon dress swallowed Ming’s slim figure whole. It was strange to see her without her signature red lipstick. Instead it was painted a lighter shade of pink, but her thin, curved eyebrows remained the same, hunching over her eyes. 

May had met Great Aunt Lan a few times before at family dinners. Her husband died three years ago. Afterwards she vaguely overheard the adults gossiping about her paranoia in suspecting an overly intimate relationship between her husband and his older sister. She didn’t even allow her to pay visits to the hospital.  

“I’m fine, Aunt Lan. It’s nice to see you. It has been so long.” 

“It must have been so hard for you, having to arrange the funeral all by yourself. I’m sure it’s a lot of work.”  

A slight pause. 

“You should not have to take on all this, my poor girl.” 

“It was alright. I’ve got Liu here to help me out.” 

Ming patted on her shoulder, and Lan slowly released her from the suffocating embrace. She hurriedly grabbed three incense sticks and stumbled towards Grandpa’s niche. Immediately tears started streaming down her face, smearing her mascara as she wiped her face with her floral patterned handkerchief.  Ming stood next to her with her hands gently overlapping and lowered her eyes, avoiding the sight as Lan’s shrill eulogy hovered over the humming of the Buddhist scripture recordings. 

Soon Ming announced the departure. There was a hurried shuffling of clothes and bags. People rushed to fetch the boxes that needed to be carried over to the funeral parlor. 

“May, come walk next to me.” 

Ming said in an almost whimper as she carefully picked up Grandpa’s portrait. May silently moved to her side. Holding Grandpa’s portrait firmly in one hand and May’s hand in another, she guided the way downstairs. As they exited the building, she gave her hand a small squeeze. 

The procession included about thirty people. May stood at the front of the line beside her mother. They proceeded in silence on the road below their apartment. The same road that was dyed red by firecrackers on New Year's Eve and scorched with black holes from incense burning during Tomb Sweeping Festival. The passersby avoided their gaze and quickly made their way through the sides.

The funeral parlor was in the suburbs of Shanghai. A stream surrounded the main building like a narrow moat and beyond this boundary there were nothing but endless fields of rapeseeds. The main room was painted flawlessly white. Numerous ivory and yellow mum garlands were hung up,  each one with rice paper couplets that announced the name of its sender. May saw a few names that she recognized, including some of her friends and classmates. Grandpa’s casket sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by flowers. Above it Ming placed his portrait.  

May wept during Ming’s eulogy. Because Ming did during her speech. Everyone did. Even grandma had tears collected in her wrinkled eyes, but she couldn’t decide whether her tears were out of grief or it was just because it felt like the only natural thing to do, or a mix of both. But she did not cry during the final farewell to Grandpa. When it was her turn she bit her lips and silently went up to cast her white rose into the casket. Under everyone’s gaze she only dared to steal a quick glance, the last glance, at Grandpa. In the exquisite shroud he lay peacefully with his eyes closed. She realized that she couldn’t recall what his eyes felt like when they last looked at her. 

Whatever is burned will become the wealth of the deceased in their afterlife. 

May saw her bag of ingots being poured in the middle of the empty courtyard. Its ground blackened from previous burning rituals. People pulled paper models of miniature five story houses into the yard. They were then submerged in clusters of peonies and roses. Someone carried a small Maserati next to the assemblage of houses. The mansions, suits, green velvet sofas, mahogany bookshelves all assembled into one huge, whimsy constellation made out of incense paper. 

Someone lit a match and threw it towards the lavish formation, drawing a flaring curve in the air.  

Fumes raised from the congregation. The thin sheath of paper quivered, gradually being consumed by the growing flames. Shredded pieces of paper scattered in the wind and the air grew misty. Some elders put up cotton white masks and others sniffed their noses. Occasionally a few coughs can be heard. The crowd watched the burning in silence until the last corner of the grandeur was devoured. 

The ceremony concluded as a man in white robe started sweeping the floor with a broom. May stared at the scorched remnants in the middle of the yard, and wondered if Grandpa would really enjoy such extravagance in the cold afterlife of his. 

On their drive to the dinner place, May sat next to Ming. She stared out of the window. The sun is just setting over the line of rapeseeds field, dying the sky a desaturated hue of orange and pink. 

“Sleep, May. It must have been an exhausting day.” Ming said softly. 

May shook her head. It was a long day, but she didn’t feel tired yet.

“Alright.” Ming patted her head. 

After a brief moment of silence, she continued without looking at May,  “I love him, you know, but I never liked him.” 

May couldn’t quite grasp what that meant. Her thoughts drift back to what Ming had told her after Grandpa’s death. 

The radio forecast reported a ninety percent precipitation probability the night that Grandpa passed away. May stayed with Ming at the hospital for vigil. Grandpa had been in the hospital for a few weeks by then, and from the look in the adult’s eyes, she had long reckoned that this time it must be serious. 

On their way back home the next day, May stared out of the window watching the rain pour down ruthlessly. She drew a sad face on the misty window, and then a smiley one next to it. The glass felt icy. 

“May.” Ming broke the silence. 

She never talked much with her mother, but on the instances where they did talk it felt natural and genuine. Yet something in Ming’s tone that day sounded different, and it triggered an unease in her. She stopped her doodle. 

“I was adopted.” 

The traffic light turned yellow, then red. They stopped. She could have made it through. 

May did not turn her head and kept fixing her gaze at her smiley face. Water started dripping down like teardrops, rendering it into a bitter, smeared smile. 

Ming turned to look at her. Her silence and indifference probably concerned her. May didn't expect the bluntness in the way her mother presented this secret to her. But somehow everything seemed to make some sense once the information got processed. Ming never looked, or acted like Grandma or Grandpa in any way. That kind of explained it, though May never really pondered about this obvious fact. The drive continued in silence.  

For a long time, May always thought of this grim dawn whenever it rains during a drive. 

Here again they were in a moving vehicle right after a direct confrontation with death. Luckily it did not rain. 

They arrived at the restaurant, which served braised pork belly too, and steamed sea bass and candied lotus root and tofu soup and bowls of rice. The huge round tables with yellow table cloth were filled to its capacity. 

Dinner proceeded in a clamor. 

“I’m full.” May announced quietly as she finished the last spoon of her seaweed tofu soup, and slipped out of her seat. The uncles continued their conversation about real estate. Next to her, Great Aunt Lan got drunk again over too much Baijiu and started wailing. Ming rushed from her seat to accompany her to the restroom. Someone’s four-year-old baby cried in a further table. Everything functioned perfectly like another chaotic family dinner. 

The last remaining glow of the sun lingered at the brink of the skyline. From the 8th floor window of the restaurant, May can still see the stiff outline of the funeral parlor in the distance. Another burning seemed to be happening in its yard. She stared at the flames as it gradually devoured the gaudy fortunes made out of paper. The fumes and smoke rose from the rapeseeds fields, vanishing under the hazy cobalt blue of the dusking sky.