North Family Letters

Returning to Dust

The rain fell all night, and even on the day of the funeral, the sky remained as dark as if it had been soaked in ink. The six daughters, holding black umbrellas, walked in a procession at the head of the funeral hall, behind them the heavy coffin, draped in a deep black veil, its weight suffocating. Rainwater streamed down the edges of the umbrellas, splashing onto the cobblestone path, creating tiny droplets that also struck the hearts of everyone present, echoing with endless sorrow.

The lingering scent of incense and candles, mixed with the earthy smell of post-rain, clung to the air in the mourning hall. The third sister, Song Qiuling, held her father's portrait; the frame was covered in a thin layer of moisture that she couldn't wipe clean no matter how hard she tried. In the photo, her father's eyes were gentle, a faint smile playing on his lips—the same man who used to lift his daughters high above his head and let them sit on his shoulders to watch fireworks. Her hands gripped the edge of the frame tightly, her knuckles white, veins bulging, as if if she loosened her grip, even her father's last image would drift away into the distance with the pouring rain.

The eldest sister, Song Chunyan, carried the memorial tablet, her steps heavy as if filled with lead, each step requiring immense effort. Last night, she took out her father's faded Zhongshan suit, its collar frayed and cuffs still bearing fine stitches—patches he had mended for her late into the night under the dim light of an oil lamp when she got married. He always said that when traveling, one should dress neatly so as not to be looked down upon. Now, this suit, filled with love, would be wrapped in the coffin, accompanying her father to his eternal rest, never to be worn by him again. As she knelt before the memorial tablet, folding the clothes, tears unexpectedly fell onto the fabric, spreading deep, damp stains that mingled with the rain, indistinguishable from tears.

Fourth Sister Song Dongxue held the bouquet of daisies, their petals already soaked by the rain, drooping listlessly, their edges turning yellowish, much like the flickering candle in her father's hospital room as he lay dying, before it finally went out completely. She gently placed the bouquet beside the coffin, her fingertips lightly brushing the wet petals. She remembered that day, her father gazing at the candlelight in the hospital room, tears streaming down his face, murmuring his daughters' names, his throat tight with sobs, unable to utter a complete cry, his sobs swallowed by the cold rain, leaving only faint choked sobs that drifted away in the rain.

Xiaoman and Xiaoya followed at the back of the line, their hands clasped tightly together, their little hands red from gripping, neither daring to let go. They were too young to understand the true meaning of life and death separating them; they only knew that their grandfather, who always smiled and gave them candy, who sheltered them from the wind and rain, would never wake up again. They hadn't been able to hold onto their father's last breath, and now they trembled as they walked, their legs weak, afraid that one wrong step would mean they would never catch up with their father's departing footsteps, never hear his gentle calls again.

Song Xiahe walked in the middle, clutching the old palm-leaf fan her father used to use. The fan had a hole in it, the edges worn smooth. It was mended by her father when she was admitted to high school; their family was struggling financially, and he couldn't bear to buy a new fan, so he painstakingly patched it up with needle and thread. The stitches were crooked and uneven, but they held the most genuine love. Now, this fan was the only memento she could hold in her hand, carrying the warmth of her father. She walked slowly, each step treading through the mud, her shoes splattered with mud, her trousers soaked with muddy water—just like the hardships and struggles her father had endured over the years, raising his six daughters, from youth to old age, for the sake of the family.

The burly men carrying the coffin chanted their work songs, their hoarse, deep voices echoing in the rain, only to be scattered by the downpour. The procession wound its way through familiar streets and alleys, passing the intersection where her father used to go to the market. He would always leave before dawn, carrying vegetables he had grown himself, returning with snacks for his daughters. They passed the alley where her sisters had gotten married; each time they parted, her father would stand at the alley entrance, forcing back tears, waving with a smile, then secretly wiping away his own tears as he turned away—every familiar corner held her father's shadow, countless memories. Passing the elementary school gate, she could almost see her father carrying her young daughter on his back, tiptoeing towards the school gate, his eyes fixed on it, his hand clutching the candy he had bought for his daughters, patiently waiting for them to come home from school.

Upon arriving at the cemetery, the newly dug pits gleamed with a damp, cold light, mingled with rainwater, making the scene exceptionally desolate. The officiant read the eulogy, his voice fragmented by the wind, each word piercing the daughters' hearts. The six daughters knelt down in unison, their knees slamming heavily into the hard earth. The icy dampness seeped into their trousers, chilling them to the bone, but it was nothing compared to the pain in their hearts.

"Dad, we'll take you home." Song Xiahe's voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible, as if it had been sanded. As soon as she finished speaking, tears mixed with rainwater and fell into the mud, instantly creating a small wet patch.

The eldest sister slowly handed over the old palm-leaf fan and gently placed it on the coffin. Her hands trembled, and her voice choked with emotion: "Dad, it's hot. Let me fan you so you don't get too hot."

The third sister carefully straightened the portrait, her fingertips tracing her father's gentle face in the frame again and again, tears blurring her vision: "Dad, may you rest in peace. Don't worry about us, we'll all be fine."

Fourth Sister gently put down the bouquet of daisies, squatted down beside the coffin, and said in a voice as soft as a sigh, "Dad, there will be no one to drink porridge with you from now on. You must eat well over there, don't be stingy anymore."

Xiaoman and Xiaoya imitated their older sisters, bowing their heads heavily, their foreheads covered in dirt, their voices filled with childish sobs and the unique helplessness of children: "Grandpa, we will take good care of Moms, don't worry."

The horn sounded again, low and mournful, as the coffin slowly sank, disappearing little by little into the earth. Handfuls of earth fell onto the coffin with dull thuds, like heavy hammer blows striking the hearts of the six daughters, causing them unbearable pain. With each handful of earth, their bodies trembled uncontrollably, from their shoulders to their fingertips, until finally, they could no longer utter a cry. Their throats felt as if stuffed with cotton, only their shoulders heaving violently, as if trying to shatter their hearts and cry out all their longing and reluctance.

The rain continued to fall, a dense, persistent downpour that soaked their hair and clothes, streaming down their faces—a mixture of rain and tears. The rain blurred the newly engraved name on the tombstone—"Tomb of Father Song"—the characters clear yet forever separated by death. The six daughters stood side by side, their gazes fixed on the new grave, their eyes stubborn yet filled with reluctance, as if if they looked long enough and intently, their father would rise from the earth, just as he had done countless times before, smiling as he called their names, opening his arms to welcome them.

There was no grand ceremony, no noisy relatives and friends, only six daughters, sending their father off on his final journey in the most clumsy yet devout way. The cemetery was silent, with only the sound of rain and their suppressed sobs; endless sorrow and longing filled the world.

As dusk deepened, they slowly rose, leaving the cemetery with every step, turning back to gaze at the new grave, their steps heavy and reluctant to move. Back in their empty home, the scent of their father still lingered. The wicker chair he often sat in was still by the window, and the unfinished tea on the table remained—everything was exactly as he had left it, yet that familiar figure was no longer there. In the years that followed, this grave became the heaviest yet warmest source of longing in their hearts. Every Qingming Festival, every anniversary of their father's death, they would bring freshly picked daisies and cooked millet porridge, sit before the grave, and chatter on and on about everyday life, about their daughters, about the unspoken longings, about the little things in their lives, as if their father had never left.

My father lived a life of quiet toil, rarely speaking, never uttering the words "I love you," yet he poured all his love into the daily necessities and the trials of time. With his frail shoulders, he supported the entire family, raising his six daughters with care, watching them grow up and establish their own lives, exhausting his own youth in the process. Now he has returned to dust, merging with the earth, but the warmest roots he left are forever planted in the hearts of his six daughters. In the storms to come, they will no longer have a shoulder to lean on, no one to shelter them from the wind and rain, but the love their father left behind—the tenderness and concern hidden in the details—will accompany them through every long year, becoming their strength in the face of life's hardships, forever warm and forever bright.