Visiting my grandfathers

It was weird
and absurd.

It was about a week before the usual ritual performance day
on Ching Ming Festival.
"Ritual" a too cold and ruthless word to say.
So,
to show people's missing and torn heart for their dead kinsmen.

It was unusual
and strangely
comforting.

I was quite light-hearted.
Deliberatingly blurting out light jokes and minor talks to lighten up the not-indeed-so-serious atmosphere
among the three of us:
my father, my mother and I.

It was queer.
It was odd.

The grey-cloaked family were wearing smiles
instead of the exaggerated hugh ugly mouths with teeth sticking out.
They looked truthful and sincere!

When did the transformation begin?
I have never noticed that visiting the deaths can be so light-hearted.

Or am I not good enough not sad enough.
No
No
No
I know I was doing just so right.
They wanted me to
They still want me to

I love you.
Yeayea
I miss you
Gunggung

Ashes are kites.
Fire is my affection.
Incense your smell had been gradually transformed.
I murmur nothing as I bow and say...
speak into your ears.
Both of your elf's ears.
So big that they can contain any words we say.
So hollow that they allow streams of words to pass through.

The pictures so familiar.
The pictures so distant.
Not blurring
but clearing itself.
To Settle and precipitate.
To become clear and clearer,
the clearest crystal ever after.