Illustration by Christina Tran
I
Grandpa is dead. He will soon turn into a pile of bones.
I can’t remember when, but my father once said that after a person dies, everything disappears, leaving behind only bones. At the time, I thought he was talking about his own father, as he hated him so much.
It seems like Grandpa had turned into a pile of bones even before he passed away. We all knew early on that he was going to die. His skin was like crumpled parchment, dark yellow, full of creases, stretched tight over his bones due to extreme emaciation. His eyes were deeply sunken, his nose resembled a pit, teeth protruding, looking exactly like a skull. We could see every single one of his bones. Day after day, he remained immobile, perched on his wooden chair.
I wake up in Arthur’s arms. We spent over ten hours to get to Beijing, then five more hours to get here, a town that has been long forgotten and run-down in economic development.
The hotel room is cramped and stifling, permeated by the mingled scents of alcohol and earth. A lonely bulb dangles dimly from the ceiling, making it hard to open my eyes. He gently nudges me, bringing me back from bouts of dizziness. He is looking at his phone, and I know he is taking care of that matter for me. He has lately been like this a lot, as if once that matter comes through, all the pains in my life will be easily alleviated. He always simplifies things, but I don’t blame him, how can I blame him?
I’ve been away from home for a long time. When I first left, I was still a student, my father didn’t have grey hair yet, and my grandpa could still speak.
I call my father about once a month, if I don’t forget. He tells me that everything is fine at home, reassures me not to worry about him and Grandpa, and then falls into silence. In my memory, my father used to be the one who stands tall and does everything for the family. I entrusted everything to him, relied on him, and used to share all my secrets with him. He also used to tell me his stories from when he was as young as I was back then. But I’m not sure since when, we rarely talk anymore. Then, by the time I came back two years ago, everything had already changed.
Father had turned into an old man, and Grandpa had turned into a skeleton glued to the wooden chair. We might be sitting in the same room; he’s busy with his plants or watching TV, while I just bury my face in my phone or drawing board. It seems there are many things he can’t or won’t say. There are many things we no longer share or perhaps cannot bring ourselves to speak. How should I tell him? Tell him that he has a son with a tattoo, who drinks, who smokes, who became a painter instead of a doctor, who will never have children because he’s a fag who disgusts his father?
Arthur nudges me again, signaling it’s time to go. I struggle to open my eyes and see him through a blurry vision. He tells me that we will likely know the result soon. I put on my glasses but still, I can’t read the emotions on his face. However, I believe there will be a moment—perhaps a right moment, maybe at Grandpa’s funeral or another occasion—when I should inform my father that his son made a runaway decision, one that he will never understand. I don’t know what this means for Arthur, but I know it would devastate my father. Still, I think I should tell him, at some moment, at the right moment.
I bury my head in his arms again, hoping that the warmth of our bodies won’t immediately fade away. I rest my head against his chest so I can hear the sounds coming from within him—the steady, reassuring thump of his heartbeat.
He whispers something to me, but I can’t make out the words.
The sky is overcast, and the city is shrouded in smog. Arthur and I stand on the street without saying a word, and it takes a while before a dusty green taxi arrives. I sit in the car, looking at him through the rearview mirror. Instead of returning to the hotel, he stands there, watching me. He smiles, but it seems forced, maybe he’s worried. I try to read his thoughts in his light brown eyes, but I can’t discern anything.
I notice a spider descending from the gap in the rearview mirror, and as the car starts, the wind carries it away.
II
I surmise my father must be engulfed in sorrow, now that he no longer has his own father around.
I think perhaps I should hug him, but when we meet, we merely exchange fleeting glances. He nods, engaging in small talk with me, as if we aren’t at his father’s funeral.
The house door stands open, with two dogs lying at the entrance. They are older than I remember, wagging their tails lightly only when someone passes by. A fly circles around one of the dogs’ heads before darting into the room. In the centre, my grandpa’s coffin rests, enveloped by fresh flowers. There’s also a large black-and-white photo, which seems to have been cropped from a picture taken with someone else.
Four women are kneeling in front of Grandpa’s coffin, weeping loudly, making a significant commotion. I’ve never seen them before. Perhaps they were hired by my father; according to custom, people like them must be hired to mourn. However, I suspect it might also be because my father cannot cry himself. He just stands there, talking to every visitor who comes, one after another.
A frail woman emerges from the crowd. She walks up to the photograph, takes a look, and then approaches Grandpa’s coffin. The four mourners make room for her. She kneels down and begins to cry, her hunched back quivering continuously, her sorrow seeming deeper than that of the hired ones, at least it appears that way. She cries for a good while, then straightens up, glancing around in a daze. When she turns her head looking at my father and me, I recognize her as my aunt.
I remember the last time I saw her. She stood in the living room, gasping for breath as she seemed to be walking too fast in the burning sun. She wore a floral jacket and held a handkerchief in her hand. Her brows were furrowed, almost touching each other, and strands of white hair on her temples stuck tightly to her cheeks, sweat dripping down. This wasn’t the aunt I remembered.
Since Grandpa fell ill and needed full-time care, he moved into our house. My father had argued with my aunt before, believing that she should also take on the responsibility of caring for Grandpa. However, my aunt just mumbled and couldn’t say anything. She believed living with a large family in a small house, she couldn’t take care of Grandpa. And my father? In her eyes, he was alone anyway, with his son overseas.
My aunt and father were arguing. Though it was more like just my aunt shouting alone, while my father just stood in front of her, hardly looking at her, occasionally uttering a few words. But whatever he said seemed to only make her angrier.
It was then I realized they were arguing over Grandpa’s inheritance. My father, as the eldest child and the only son in the family, believed he should inherit the majority of the estate according to tradition, but my aunt disagreed, insisting it should be split equally.
She stood there in the living room, shouting, pounding the table with her hands, and sometimes even stomping her feet. I had never seen so much energy erupt from such a small body, and I had never heard so many profanities accusing my father. She accused my father of coveting Grandpa’s inheritance and he’s not taking care of Grandpa well enough. I didn’t know where these accusations came from. All I remembered was Grandpa moving into our home. He was barely able to speak or walk, he would drop food on the floor, fail to recognize his family and relieve himself wherever he sat. Despite all this, my father cared for him tirelessly, never complaining, even when woken in the middle of the night to clean the mess Grandpa just made.
The noise caught the attention of the two dogs, who seemed to think things weren’t chaotic enough and began barking loudly in the yard. Eventually, my father slumped onto the sofa, head bowed, listening as my aunt’s uncontrollable screams filled the air.
His silence made me angry.
I felt like I needed to do something, but I didn’t know how to resolve the conflict between them. I didn’t understand why my aunt had become like this, nor did I understand why my father tolerated it all. Was it really important who took care of Grandpa? Was his modest inheritance really that significant?
As my aunt’s tirade escalated, she even started hurling insults at me. I stood in front of her, wanting to say something, but realizing how much taller I was compared to her. She appeared as nothing but a frail, small elderly woman before me. Catching her gaze, she surprisingly halted her stream, simply asking me what I wanted to do.
I hesitated for a moment, just wanting to push her out the door and tell her to stop causing trouble. When my fingers touched her arm, she screamed as if I had pricked her with a needle. Her voice was as harsh as a shrimp on a hot iron plate. She threatened to call the police if I touched her again. I felt a surge of anger, as fire in my heart, my hands trembling. She pushed me back, but her strength was feeble, and I just stood there like a pole. She claimed that our whole family had joined forces to bully her, and then she cried and screamed and sat on her arse on the floor.
“Enough!” my father suddenly roared, and my aunt instantly fell silent. Only the dogs were still whimpering at the door.
Father simply returned to his bedroom in silence, and I felt a shiver run through my body. When he emerged again, he was holding a paper for my aunt to fingerprint. He was giving her half of Grandpa’s estate.
I don’t remember how that day ended. I vaguely recall my aunt leaving, still crying, saying our families didn’t have to be like this. She muttered through tears as she stumbled out the door. I often dream about that scene, but I’m not sure if it’s a memory. Everything feels so unreal. She got what she wanted, so why was she still crying?
But something is certain, my aunt was a nice woman, at least she used to be.
There was once a strong bond between her family and ours. We used to spend holidays together, sharing meals and celebrations. She would often pat my head and praise me. My father would modestly deflect her compliments, but she would insist, saying I was an excellent child and praising my father for raising me well. Then, like magic, she would pull a few pieces of candy out of her pocket and quietly slip them into my hand.
However, after that day, my father never spoke to my aunt again, and she never inquired about Grandpa’s well-being again.
The day when my aunt came to our house, all the while, Grandpa just sat there in his wooden chair, watching. Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. I wasn’t sure if he understood what was going on. It was then, as my father looked at him, that I guessed the expression in his eyes might be one of hatred.
I walked over and crouched beside Grandpa, wanting to ask him what he was thinking, wanting to ask why he didn’t speak up for my father. Did it break his heart that his children were splitting up over something that would happen after his death? Why didn’t he say anything? But at that moment, I didn’t even know what I wanted to ask exactly. Before I could open my mouth, he grabbed my hand.
“Son,” he said without looking at me, “What’s for lunch?” That was the only thing he said. It sent a chill down my spine, not because of the old man’s confused mind, but because he mistook me for my father.
Did we even look alike? Would I become like him?
After everyone has arrived at the funeral, my father begins to address them, maintaining a seemingly calm demeanour as he speaks.
My father has always been a silent man. So I even find it strange when he can say so much in front of people. He reflects on Grandpa’s life, expressing his regrets for not living up to the expectations that his father had set for him—it’s clear that Grandpa had envisioned more for him. As he mentions my aunt, he doesn’t point the finger at her for avoiding caring for Grandpa, nor does he say anything nice, he just briskly passes by as if she wasn’t his sister, while my aunt lets out a whimper in the crowd as the man next to her assists her. My father acknowledges the years he spent taking care of his father, portraying them not as an obligation, but as years filled with a quiet kind of joy; he had no other options, but in those years, he found happiness.
I know he is lying; he wasn’t happy, nor was he without options.
Every time he called me from China he talked about how hard it was to take care of Grandpa, he wasn’t complaining, just mumbling about his days. I suggested he hire a nurse to share the load, but he educated me that it was unfilial. Then he would change the subject and talk about how he wanted to visit me abroad but he couldn’t get away.
After my father finishes speaking, my aunt begins. My father stands outside the door, not listening, the two old dogs lying beside him. He holds a cigarette in his hand, with a long column of ash accumulating at the end. I walk over, thinking to say something, perhaps to share my news with him, but I find myself unable to speak.
At noon, people lift the coffin, forming a long procession heading toward the cemetery.
The weather is uncooperative; a sudden downpour makes our journey challenging. Everyone wears white sleeve covers; my father, my aunt, and I are also clad in stifling white garments, with white bands tied around our heads. My father holds a bag of joss paper, scattering it into the air as we walk. The wind instantly sweeps the paper away; rain pelts it, and it lands in the mud. The mountainous road is rugged and treacherous.
Someone is playing suona at the front of the procession, holding some colourful paper-made items. It’s said that when elderly people of this age pass away, it’s called “joyful mourning,” but clearly, no one is truly joyful.
The rain isn’t heavy, yet raindrops keep blowing onto my face, making it difficult for me to open my eyes. I feel like a soulless body, moving blindly.
I can’t help but steal glances at my father from the corner of my eye, but his face remains expressionless. Raindrops fall on his face as well, and I try to find traces of tears in that rain.
As we pass a slope, my aunt slips and tumbles down, landing in a pit. Some people rush over immediately to help her. I don’t know whether people genuinely care about her or just want to finish the ceremony quickly. The funeral procession can’t afford to pause for too long.
I glance at my father, and for a brief moment, concern flickers across his face. But when he realizes that my aunt has only fallen down and isn’t something serious, he doesn’t move. He stops scattering paper money into the air; he just stands there.
“Dad…” I finally say, my voice trembling.
Then I have to call him again, and he turns to look at me.
“Just want you to know…” I pause, noticing that I’m staring at him as if not wanting to miss any detail on his face. I tell myself that I’m old enough, that he can’t stop me from making my own decisions or beat me with a stick anymore. “I’ve applied for immigration, and I’m probably… I’m about to move abroad, permanently.”
I speak quickly, so quickly that I’m not even sure if my tone is appropriate. Despite staring at him, I can’t grasp any emotion, and everything in front of me is blurry. I wipe the rainwater from my face with my hand.
My father purses his lips and remains silent for a moment.
Relatives around us seem to have heard the conversation, but no one dares to say anything. The suona continues playing, and people keep crying, but I feel everything is in complete silence.
My father reaches out and grabs my arm, squeezing it tightly.
“What do you…” I open my mouth, not really knowing what to ask.
“You… You’re going to live abroad from now on?” he interrupts me, “Become a foreigner, not a Chinese anymore?”
I nod, not knowing what else to say.
“Alright,” he says, then turns away from me and resumes scattering more joss paper into the air.
“Will you come to see me?” I ask, but I feel my voice is too quiet.
Amid the suona music, the sound of rain, and intermittent sobbing, I seem to hear him say, “Perhaps,” yes, I think I seem to hear it.
I turn my gaze back to my aunt. She has almost been helped up by people, but she falls again. Her white clothes are soaked and stained with mud.
Unable to rise—or perhaps unwilling to—she lies in the muddy pit, weeping loudly and calling for her father.
Only the thunder responds.
III.
I surmise my father must feel relieved now, as he no longer has his own father by his side.
By the time we return home, it is already night. My father takes a bath, prepares dinner, and then feeds the dogs, all without engaging in conversation with me. Just before he enters my grandpa’s bedroom, he approaches me as if wanting to say something but ends up merely whispering my name. He pats my shoulder and then goes into the room.
Grandfather’s bedroom has now reverted to being father’s study. My father sits on the wooden chair, lighting a cigarette, and slumps there.
I notice his grey hair. The fatigue of his lifetime, his pain, joy, sadness, and hatred—all seem to be spilling from the corners of his eyes. Slowly, he’s being swallowed by the chair, bit by bit. A chill surges through my chest. He is just like Grandpa, soon to be reduced to a pile of bones. I’m not sure what I’m afraid of, but I feel like there’s a rock in my chest and it’s hard to breathe.
At this moment, Arthur sends a text. I’ve gotten the immigration approval.
I walk out of the house. I will go to the hotel to meet my boyfriend, and then we will leave this place together. We will live somewhere so far away from home, where I will have my own job, and will experience my own life—joys and sorrows.
Perhaps my father will come to visit, perhaps not.
One day he will grow very, very old, as old as Grandpa was, and I won’t be there to care for him the way he did for his father.
I probably won’t have children, so one day, I will also be very, very old, perhaps there won’t be anyone to care for me either.
When I’m about to turn into a pile of bones, sitting on a wooden chair just like that, will my thoughts be the same as my father’s are now, or as my grandpa’s were on the day my aunt visited, as they sat on the wooden chair?
I crouch down at the doorway, and the two old dogs slowly approach, lying down in front of me. Gently, I stroke their heads to bid them farewell.
Yifan Li (he/him) is a Chinese queer writer. Holding a BA in Theatre Studies from the University Sorbonne Nouvelle in Paris, Yifan is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of British Columbia.