One year on

My words singed, turned brown, and then disintegrated into charcoal black. Gentle words, words of gratitude, words of description, powerful words that convey my feelings and confusions throughout the year, words in black and white, words that transcend time and space. Now and forever, lost, consumed by the bright orange creatures of fire and smoke that grew ever stronger as they tossed their heads and hands in a colourful dance. In the great big stack of burning paper, in the midst of soot and at times unbearable and uncontrollable flames, the letter I had written to my dad disappeared into a heap of ash before my eyes. Small pieces of paper, fueled by lively flames, took flight and hovered, up, up into the heavens. Offerings, prayers and wellwishes for those who have already moved on.

More than 14 hours had passed since arrived at the grounds where dad's remains have been laid to rest almost a year earlier. We woke early to avoid the rush hour traffic, and ventured through the mist to the Pacific coast. Even now, I can still see how against the stark and pitch, pitch black silhouette of mountains, the dawn sky gradually brightened. A silvery sliver of the moon hung almost unnoticed and too shy to shine up above. The same moon, a little shier, would return to accompany us on our long journey up and down the island as part of an elaborate ceremony to commemorate the anniversary of dad's death.

One year after one's death is a special event here, and a pivotal milestone on the road to reincarnation. In local beliefs, the world of the living and the dead intersect and interact in a symbiotic nature. True to Taiwanese customs, the spirit of the deceased is believed to linger in the world after death. To offer the spirit a home, immediately after death, high priests or Buddhist monks are called in to direct the spirit into small wooden memorial plaques, which are worshipped and kept in temples or even in people's houses.

It may sound strange to be offering food, flowers and incence to a piece of wood. Even stranger when some bow and kowtow before a little piece of wood with a few scribbles on it. But somehow a plaque bearing names of the ancestors and forefathers (and -mothers) offers hope and comfort. Like all rituals and rites, remembering the deceased, honouring those who came before us gives people solice, and perhaps a way of self-therapy to deal with the inevitable loss and death of a loved one. Respect, reverence and remembering the ancestors is a way to preserve virtues and values of gratitude, appreciation and humility.

Frogs croaked, and crickets cried. A feel of dew blew through the light sea breeze as night dropped its dark curtains. In the distance, I could hear the waves of the ocean washing and flowing against the shore. I looked back at the day that had come and gone. I have long longed for this day to come. Not out of anticipation, I do not think, and certainly not out of excitement, but perhaps more out of a feeling that I wish to be able to come to terms with the permanent absence of my dad in my life. Even (or maybe especially?) one year later.

The light scent of fresh flowers, the pungent smell of fresh fruits and dad's favourite dishes and delicacies. Before the ancestorial plaque I stood, eyes closed, hands cupped together in reverence. The little piece of wood looked insignificant, yet bore the marks and scribbles of much emotional and family history. At the day's end, I had learned that I am but a little link in a long lineage that spans over four generations, or possibly more. I saw the names of my ancestors. People who lived in times when the island was considered a hideout for ruffians and pirates... people who lived during the Japanese colonial era... people who underwent prosecution and the terror of the invading Chinese Nationalist government. People I never knew existed, but somehow felt a close connection to, even though we have never met, and never will. Reading their names, I tried to imagine their faces, their lives and voices. Pasts and lives forever lost, yet have always been a part of who I am today, and where I come from.

Closer to my generation, I could identify names that sounded more familiar, and picture lives that were once part of my own. There was my grandfather, who raised six children and sent them all to university just by repairing bicycles... my grandmother, memories of whose calming smile and kindness can still bring me to tears... And the most recent addition, the name of my own dear dad, whose voice and face often still dwells in my thoughts and dreams.

The bell chimed, the night mist grew dense. The frogs still croaked, and the sea still ebbed and flowed, as it has done over and over again in the past year, in the past decades and centuries. The natural cycles and movements of the world continues, in life and long after death.

In the flames that consumed my letter to my dad, and mesmorised my thoughts of the people who came before me, I felt calm, surprisingly peaceful and blessed.