North Family Letters

Returning to Dust

The rain had stopped sometime earlier, and twilight had turned the new graves in the cemetery a somber gray. The six daughters, supporting each other, walked slowly on their way back. There were no more shouts from the pallbearers, no more eulogies from the master of ceremonies; only the sound of shoes crunching through the mud and their suppressed, intermittent sobs could be heard on the country road, scattered by the wind across the empty fields.

Pushing open the weathered wooden door, the old house seemed even quieter than before. Father used to love sitting in the wicker chair in the main room, either fanning himself with an old palm-leaf fan and resting with his eyes closed, or picking vegetables and repairing farm tools. Even without a word, the house exuded a comforting, homely atmosphere. But now, the wicker chair was empty, the stove was cold, and even the sunflower he kept on the windowsill drooped listlessly, devoid of any life, due to the continuous rain.

The eldest sister, Song Chunyan, was the first to enter the inner room. She didn't turn on the light, but relied on the faint daylight from the window to carefully sort through her father's belongings. At the very bottom of the wardrobe lay an old wooden box with a rusted brass lock. She found a key and gently opened it. Inside, neatly folded, were all her daughters' old clothes from childhood: Xiaoman's outgrown floral dress, Xiaoya's worn-out cloth shoes, the swaddling clothes her third sister had worn as a baby, and the new schoolbag her father had saved up overnight to buy for Song Xiahe when she entered high school—the corners carefully mended. At the very bottom was a stack of yellowed letters, written in her father's rough handwriting. He recorded each daughter's birthday and preferences, every household expense, and the dowry list for each daughter's wedding. Every word was filled with undisguised love, even the dates were clearly marked.

"Dad didn't have much formal education, but he remembered the six of us his whole life." The eldest sister held the letter, slowly sliding down the wardrobe to sit down, finally bursting into tears. The sorrow she had suppressed all the way over the past few years completely overwhelmed her at this moment. Over the years, as the eldest daughter, she had always thought of helping her father share the household chores and learning from him to support the family. But only now did she realize that her father's burden had always been heavier than she had imagined. He swallowed all his bitterness and reserved only his gentleness and peace for his daughters.

Song Xiahe squatted at the kitchen door, gazing at the iron pot her father had used for decades. Images of the past flashed before her eyes: every day before dawn, her father would get up to light the fire and cook; the clatter of pots and pans was the familiar morning melody she and her sisters had known since childhood. The family was poor, and meat was a rare treat. Her father always gave the meat to his daughters, while he himself only ate bones and drank the broth. In winter, when the water was cold, he never let his daughters touch the cold water to wash vegetables, always silently finishing the housework himself, his hands red with cold. She reached out and touched the stove; a faint warmth still lingered, as if her father had just been busy there and would turn around the next second, smiling and calling her to eat.

The third sister, Song Qiuling, gently hung her father's portrait in the center of the main room. She then brought a basin of water and carefully wiped away the moisture and dust from the frame. In the photo, her father remained gentle. She sat in a wicker chair, mimicking his old manner, gently fanning herself with an old palm-leaf fan. The fanning motion was slow, but tears fell drop by drop onto the fan, blurring the patched hole. She remembered how, as a child, she always clung to her father, wanting him to carry her to the market. His back wasn't broad, but it was exceptionally steady; no matter how far they walked, he never complained of being tired. Back then, she always thought her father was an omnipotent superman, able to solve all problems and shield her from all storms. But only when he lay in his coffin did she realize with a start that even supermen grow old and leave.

Fourth Sister Song Dongxue silently went to the kitchen, lit a fire, rinsed the rice, and cooked a pot of millet porridge. It was her father's favorite porridge; he always said it was good for the stomach and warming. The aroma of the porridge slowly filled the old house, just like always, but no one was sitting at the table anymore, waiting for a bowl of hot porridge. She ladled a bowl and gently placed it on the table in front of his portrait, her voice soft, as if afraid of disturbing her father: "Dad, the porridge is ready. Drink it while it's hot." As soon as she finished speaking, tears fell into the bowl, spreading out in fine ripples.

Xiaoman and Xiaoya leaned against the doorframe, their little hands still clutching the candy their father had bought for them before he died. The candy was half melted and sticky on their palms. They didn't dare cry loudly, only sobbing softly, repeatedly asking Song Xiaohe, "Auntie, is Grandpa really not coming back? Has he gone to a faraway place and doesn't want us anymore?" Song Xiaohe hugged the two children tightly, her throat choked with sobs, unable to speak. She could only gently pat their backs. She couldn't tell the children that death meant eternal separation; she could only silently say in her heart that her father had never left, that he had simply changed his way of watching over them.

As night deepened, the six sisters didn't return to their rooms but instead sat around their father's portrait in the main room, unwilling to leave. They chatted about childhood anecdotes and recounted everyday life over the years, from their eldest sister's marriage to the birth of their youngest daughter, from the hardships of the past to the gradual improvement in their lives—every event was intertwined with their father's presence. As they spoke, the crying gradually subsided, leaving only gentle murmurs, as if their father were still sitting in his wicker chair, quietly listening to them.

The eldest sister gently folded the faded Zhongshan suit and placed it next to the portrait. She then carefully arranged the old palm-leaf fan and the bunch of dried daisies. "Dad, don't worry, we'll take care of things at home. We'll be fine, we'll look after each other, and we won't let you worry," she said softly, as if promising her father and comforting herself.

In the days to come, the old house will never be as lively as before. Father's rattan chair will remain empty, and the aroma of porridge in the kitchen will lack a certain anticipation. But the love that father left behind has already been engraved in the bones and blood of his six daughters. They will learn from their father, treat others gently, live their lives steadily, keep his advice in their hearts, and keep this family tightly bound together.

Every morning, they remember their father getting up early to cook; every rainy day, they remember him holding an umbrella to pick them up from school; every time they reunite, an extra set of chopsticks and a bowl of millet porridge are placed on the table. Their father has returned to dust, but his love has never faded. It is hidden in every corner of the old house, in every thought of his daughters, accompanying them through spring, summer, autumn, and winter, year after year, becoming their lifelong source of strength and concern.

The years may pass slowly, but their longing remains undiminished. They know that from now on, they will be separated by mountains and rivers, and their father will no longer be there to shelter them from the wind and rain. But his deep love will transform into countless stars, illuminating their path in every dark night, year after year, never absent.