The letter singed, curled up like a crumpled leaf, then charcoaled. From the large open fireplace, smoke and soot rose skyward like an aboriginal smoke signal, mixing with the constant fall of rain and the fast-moving blanket of mist that swept down from the mountain top. The normally blue, blue Pacific hid behind the dense, dense cover of the fog.
Next to the letter was a box full of paper money, gold coins and bank notes, as well as a pack of Marlboro's, which at my urging, brother had thrown in to offer to the ancestors and dad. I stood there for a while, listening to the fire crack and pop, sensing the scent of burning paper sticking to my clothes and skin, and feeling warmth of the fierce flame against my cheeks. Dad must be happy to receive word from you, mum had said earlier. "He will feel proud of you, and of the fact that you spent so much time writing to him".
Other people gathered around the burning heap and poured in stacks and stacks of paper money to offer to the deceased. For a moment I thought perhaps I had offered too little compared to what they were giving. But then again, they did not seem to have a letter with heart-felt words of gratitude and expressions of love.
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