“The Day of Qingming” by Huina Zheng
Photo Credit: Summer Rune
Ah-ma drifts to your side as your mother cleans the tombstone and your father
offers fresh flowers and sacrifices. The scene is so lively it feels like a festival. Ah-ma looks at you with a gaze that is three parts cool and seven parts cold—familiar sarcasm etched into her expression. Behind her, more translucent spirits float, as weightless as smoke in the breeze. They seem to be your distant ancestors—blurred faces, names lost to time. But here, in the family cemetery, they are all yours. You bow to them one by one. Watch as Ah-ma drifts above with them. Do not dwell on whether to smile or stay solemn—just be grateful. Do not give Ah-ma a reason to scold you.
When the drizzle begins to fall, put on your little yellow duck raincoat. Fasten
every button. Pick up a cloth and wipe the tombstone alongside your mother. Do not complain—mud-streaked shoes, rain on your face. No different from tears. Wipe away the stains. Imagine Ah-ma as she was in life: the White Rabbit candy she handed you when you behaved, her flaring nostrils as she whipped you with a hanger, the smacking sounds she made while eating, the veins and age spots on her hands. If that is not enough, look at Ah-ma’s face. Work harder.
When Ah-ma asks for your filial piety, do not hesitate. Take the gold-tinged joss paper and feed it into the furnace, one sheet at a time. The paper twists and tumbles in the flames—a silent dance. The fire devours it greedily, crackling as it whispers ancient secrets. The joss paper turns into golden butterflies, soaring into another world, into your ancestors’ bank accounts. The numbers rise before your eyes, each flicker of the flames making them climb higher. Money has never been so easy to obtain, so effortless, as it is in this moment.
As the ritual nears its end, the air thickens with the faint scent of burnt paper and fireworks. The fragrance lingers, seeping through time and space, reaching places unseen. A strange light flickers in Ah-ma’s eyes as she whispers with the ancestors. Look at my granddaughter. Well-behaved. Obedient. Filial. A top student. She will come every year to honor us. This is my granddaughter. My granddaughter.
Remember—do not argue. Listen obediently. Do not tell your parents. They cannot see your Ah-ma. They are merely participants in this ritual.
Close your eyes and take in the surrealness of it all. Time stands still. Only the flames remain, and Ah-ma’s sharp, chilling voice.
Artist Statement
In my hometown, only sons and grandsons visit ancestors’ graves during Qingming. My two sisters and I were never included—only my younger brother went. As a granddaughter, I was never expected to participate, yet always expected to be obedient, respectful, and “filial.” This story doesn’t name the tradition directly, but it carries the weight of being excluded and still wanting to belong. Writing from a granddaughter’s perspective was my way of stepping into a ritual I was left out of—on my own terms.
Huina Zheng, a Distinction M.A. in English Studies holder, works as a college essay coach. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and others. Her work has received nominations three times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her family.