Collage

bad years my mother had to go to the field with Mrs. Henderson and Mrs. Dubois to pick up the leftover wheat straws. And the next morning we would have straw stew, a distasteful brown mess. Because whether we have food or not completely depended on god’s will, most people try to befriend families with the elderly or the weak, hoping to get a share of meat when the funeral is held. We try to be civilized during funerals, not revealing our carnal excitement as we watch the remains flow down the river. And even as we eat, we try to act out of obligation, to honor the dead and not celebrate. There are always

Collage By Shuci Zhang

Margaret who are too young to be solemn, and we all just ignore that, because all of us know it is also what we are thinking inside. The day of my grandfather’s funeral was gray, with a few strands of wispy clouds hanging in the sky. Beneath, I watched him float down the river and then returned to the house with the rest, in a continuing silence. The guests settled down and my mother and Mrs. Henderson-our neighbor-brought out the meat they had prepared last night. They gave an equal share to everyone’s plate, and just when we were about to raise our forks, Margaret began to whine. “This is much less compared to when aunt Dorothy passed away!” The guests pretended to take no notice while my mother shushed her. My father put on an embarrassing smile. But Margaret continued to whine. My father looked her straight in the eye and told her to be quiet because we were all honoring my grandfather’s loss. “I want to have meat!” The focus of her vision sprinting the distance between guests, she locked eyes with each of them, who were darting their glances away. She plead for recognition with what is now a scrutiny, as if— “agree with me! I know this is what you are all thinking, admit it!” I felt her voice echo somewhere inside of me. Margaret was taken to her room to repent for her offense. Come evening, twilight shimmered on distant mountains like a stretch of orange silk. When all the guests bid their farewells, my father sat on the porch looking into the distance. I approached him and told him that what Margaret did was indeed very unacceptable and he should not be troubled about it. But he surprised me. “No, she’s right. We really are just here for the meat. I’m doubting if it really is honoring the deceased…” “I really wish that we could hold funerals like your grandfather once described, in sacred place, with lots of people, saying formal farewells.” Night falls. “But then his flesh would go bad.”