This sentiment is best expressed on the Double Ninth Festival.

     From a foreign land to my hometown, less than a thousand miles, there are no flights, and driving seems too far, so the train is the most suitable. The October sun is warm and clear. Walking on the overpass leading to the station, I can see a bright blue, like celadon glaze, covering the city sky, stretching as far as the eye can see. I don't need to bring any luggage on this trip; it's not a long journey. Apart from a backpack on my shoulder, I have no one with me. At this moment, I feel like a leaf, drifting freely, as if I have boundless freedom.

    It's almost the Double Ninth Festival, almost a full year since my father passed away. This year, though not as fleeting as in previous years, has not brought me great sorrow. Thinking of my father, seventy-eight years old, in his twilight years, although his children have taken good care of him, he still lived the latter half of his life alone. Whenever I see the deep sorrow in his eyes, I naturally think of my mother. Her sudden departure has given the most intense and coldest pain in the world to her children, and also to my father. This pain, though like frost to me, must have been like ice and snow in my father's heart. Now, the cold has passed and warmth has arrived; they can finally meet again beyond this mortal realm. At this moment, what selfish sorrow of losing a loved one could I possibly feel? There are many kinds of warmth in this world, but the one who gives the best, the one who gives the most, is irreplaceable by anyone else. Just like my journey home, not for my hometown, not for my brothers, but only for that mound of yellow earth where my parents are buried together in the vast poplar forest, only for that one final bow and sweeping of the dust before that earth.

    When I got home, as usual, I slept soundly, deeply, peacefully, so deeply that I didn't want to wake up. I remember that year when I went back for the Spring Festival, before dawn, my younger brother was calling me from the yard. I was already awake then, and I heard my father hurriedly stopping me at the door, saying, "Let your brother sleep well, don't wake him. People who are often away from home are always exhausted." My brother laughed and said, "We who take care of you at home every day, aren't we tired?" But my father laughed and told him to get lost. After Mother passed away, Father didn't manage the household much anymore; it was my brothers who held the family together. Even so, when my brothers and sisters-in-law quarreled or argued over trivial matters, Father always disciplined my brothers and never spoke ill of my sister-in-law. We, naturally, were obedient, partly out of respect for Father and partly out of pity for his loneliness. It's clear how precious it was for my father that he and my brother could stay together for life; even a brief argument was a great joy for him.

    In the afternoon, my brothers and I drove to buy things. Tomorrow, the seventh day of the ninth lunar month, is the first anniversary of Father's passing. All the relatives will be coming, and we'll have a feast. We only told the person in charge that there would be about a few tables, and that we didn't need to worry about the vegetables, fish, meat, cigarettes, alcohol, or candles; he would take care of everything. After we returned, the person in charge of cooking started calling on the helpers to set up the tent, build the stove, and start the fire. They gutted the fish and cut the meat. The relatives also arrived one after another, preparing square tables, benches, cups, plates, and bowls. Soon, the courtyard was filled with the aroma of fireworks and the clamor of voices. As dusk fell, a box of fireworks was brought out and set off with a series of booming sounds in the open space in front of the house. Watching the clusters of flames overhead, I felt as if I had stepped into another world. The

    annual memorial service had been held, and half the mourning rituals had been performed. The paper offerings placed in the courtyard, a mixture of red and white, resembled an uncertain mix of joy and sorrow. Early the next morning, my younger brother and I carried the paper lantern and followed my older brothers out of the village, walking along the road towards our father's grave. According to superstition, this was to bring the deceased from beyond the mortal world into the world of the living, to let him stay in the home he had lived in for half a day. Holding my eldest brother's photograph was my father's picture. The first time I saw it, I felt that my father had so much to say to me. I tried to find something to say in my heart, but none of it was suitable. Perhaps he had nothing to say, but I clearly still wanted to say something. As a son, why am I so filled with apprehension? It must be my deep regret, the guilt of being so far away, unable to fulfill my filial duties. Living is meant to be about being together day and night—husbands with wives and children, children with parents. But too many people are caught up in the hustle and bustle, striving for livelihood, chasing fame and fortune, separated by vast distances, living alone in empty nests, some even dying without ever seeing each other again. If it weren't for this worldly hustle and bustle, every family would naturally live nestled in the mountains and by the water, free from the hustle and bustle of city life, not as strangers in a distant land, simply working at sunrise and resting at sunset, hearing the sounds of chickens and dogs in the mulberry groves, watching the peach blossoms bloom year after year—that would be the greatest joy in life.

    When we arrived at my father's grave, it was already old and verdant. I remember this time last year, a mound of yellow earth rising from the ground, so tall and imposing; now, in just one year, the soil has settled, making it thin and firm. It seemed to have witnessed countless storms and snows, unburdened and thoughtless, eternally existing alongside the eternal earth; its steadfastness and tranquility were reassuring. My brother burned yellow paper and whispered, "Father, today is the first anniversary of your death. We brothers invite you home." With that, we prostrated ourselves in the dust.

    On the way back, my nephew set off firecrackers along the route to ward off evil spirits. We carried the paper tower to the village entrance, where my sister was already waiting. Seeing us return, she burst into tears, wailing loudly. I, too, had been holding back tears for a long time, and hearing this, I couldn't help but shed tears that streamed down my face. The paper tower was placed in the courtyard, with an offering table in front, displaying my father's portrait, incense, candles, wine vessels, and offerings. A mat was laid out in the courtyard for kneeling and worship. I thought to myself, having traveled so far to return, am I not even allowed to cry like my sister? How can I release this pent-up pain of missing my father? At this moment, my eldest brother led us to the incense table, where we knelt and prostrated ourselves. Seeing him burst into tears, we brothers all wept uncontrollably, our tears streaming down our faces. The grief of losing a loved one, accumulated over hundreds of days and nights, was all released in this moment of weeping and singing; how could it not be a bursting dam? How many times in life can one so completely lose oneself, tears falling like rain? This weeping was like galloping horses kicking up dust, vast and unrestrained, scattering all knots of sorrow and dispelling all anxieties.

    Soon, relatives arrived one after another, bringing steamed buns, wine, meat, and firecrackers, which were piled up like a small mountain on the long table beside the courtyard. The person in charge had someone write labels, according to the village and town, and attach them to the gifts. These labels would be used to guide the process during the ceremony, ensuring no one was missed. Around 11 a.m., the ceremony began, and we knelt quietly on both sides of the incense table. At this moment, the person in charge came over, a white cloth draped over his arm, and instructed someone to place a gift on the incense table. Two people stood on either side of the table, one holding wine and the other incense. Beneath the table was a brazier for burning paper money. A moment later, firecrackers went off, and the person in charge led us to the front courtyard to offer our condolences. Upon

    entering the courtyard, the person in charge stood at the entrance to the main hall, laid the white cloth draped over his arm flat on the ground, and loudly proclaimed, "We beseech—our relative/friend, [name], to offer our condolences." Then he said to us, "—the filial son/daughter kneels and bows." We immediately bowed deeply, then followed the person in charge back to the sides of the incense table in the main courtyard to kneel in welcome. When the relative/friend stepped forward and stood before the mat, the person in charge called out, "—watch the incense." The incense bearer replied, "—the incense is ready." Upon hearing this, the relative/friend began to step forward, performing the ritual of standing with incense, kneeling with wine, and bowing three times and kowtowing nine times. We, on either side, responded with bows and kowtows. Finally, relatives and friends, with their hands loosely clenched into fists, prostrated themselves on the ground, making sobbing sounds. We also prostrated ourselves and wept. When we heard the person holding the wine shout, "—Return the courtesy," we fell silent and raised our heads. When the person holding the wine shouted again, "—Thank you again," we kowtowed once more. Thus, one round of the memorial service was completed. Then, the person in charge repeated the above-mentioned rituals to begin the next round of offerings. The entire memorial service was not considered to be over until about one o'clock in the afternoon. By then, my knees were aching unbearably, my tears had dried, and my throat was sore. If my father had seen this, he would surely have been heartbroken.

    After the memorial service, the incense table was removed, firecrackers were set off, and we carried the paper tower, with the remaining nephews and nieces carrying other paper offerings, following along the way, sending my father back to his world. Relatives and friends escorted him to the village entrance, where the person in charge took him home for a feast. After a while, we returned to my father's grave and burned the paper tower and all the paper offerings and paper money. In an instant, flames roared and crackled, ashes billowed upwards, and a chorus of mournful cries filled the air.

    I live in the city and have witnessed urban ceremonies, but those are simply finding a quiet spot to burn a few pieces of paper under the cover of night, nothing like the elaborate and complex customs of my rural hometown. Not only is the first anniversary like this, but there will be third, tenth, and twentieth anniversaries, each more grand than the last, the atmosphere gradually shifting from sorrow to joy. By the thirtieth anniversary, colorful tents are erected, music is played, and it becomes a truly joyous occasion.

    Some might say this is merely a show for the living, serving no purpose for the dead. I used to agree. A person should live a vibrant life; there's no need for such festivities after death, since no one will see them anyway. But now, facing my father, a man seemingly unrelated, neither particularly good nor bad to others, yet to me my lifelong kin, we, his sons, spend money and make such a spectacle. He may never know, but today, his death stirs and influences the world, causing a flurry of activity and commotion—as if it were a continuation of his life. This makes the living realize that death isn't so terrible; it's not permanent silence, but a new way of living. Years later, those who have died will still cause the world to weep and sing for them—how reassuring and peaceful that is!

    The next day, I slept all morning and drove to the city at dusk. Someone had already booked a train ticket for me to return to Beijing. I looked out the car window at the setting sun gradually disappearing among the poplar trees and said to myself, "Father, I will come again on the Double Ninth Festival two years from now."