Grave Sweeping

On this visit home, Little Uncle has a sparkling white Nissan SUV. Last time it was a used sedan; the time before, a motorcycle. One day, I pile in with my aunts and uncles, riding shotgun because they insist.

The village has paved these roads since my last visit. Paved might be a generous description: my head keeps bumping against the ceiling of the car. We speed past a gray-haired woman behind a wheelbarrow, her face leathery from the sun. Little Uncle honks every few seconds at chickens, children on bikes, men with canes. We pass a woman about my age driving a sleek car. The sunroof is open, and the wind accentuates her long hair. A man is in the passenger's seat. None of my relatives comment. Perhaps a woman driving her man around is normal these days.

Little Uncle parks at the curb of a stranger's house in the middle of nowhere. Everywhere here looks like the middle of nowhere. Not until we take out the fireworks and fake money instead of the fruit and food from the trunk do I realize our destination. We are heading to an area overgrown with shrubs, with a gravel road to the right and two man-made fish ponds nearby. No fences or edifices mark this cemetery. We wade through weeds and reeds, the stalks scratching my bare legs. Although I am more than a head taller than my aunts, they move with a speed I cannot match. Their feet avoid the mushy spots in the grass; my sneakers are soaked within seconds.

At the first of the four tombstones, we form a semicircle. I recognize my last name at the top, but I can't read the characters that follow. Your great-grandfather is here, Little Uncle tells me. I do not know my great-grandfather's name, or anything else about him. I would ask, but I do not want to betray how little I know, or how little I will remember. On each person's tombstone is an entire family. The male descendants are listed on the right, the women to the left. My folks come twice a year, at least, on holidays for elders that don't exist in the States. Today is not one of those holidays. They are making this trip for me.

It is my second time, and still the ritual amazes me. Grave sweeping. My aunts and uncles grab the stacks of fake money and yellow squares of tissue paper. As with much of Chinese life, my family works with a duty and efficiency I admire. Their fingers dig into diamond-shaped holes within the squares for traction. Their wrists flick to rifle off stacks of paper at a time. Each rainbow-colored bill I try to toss flutters away, the faces of Chairman Mao flying too far from the tombstone. I am also too slow. I give half of my money to second aunt so they don't have to wait.

Little Uncle ignites the multicolored heap with his cigarette lighter. I am the only one who has to step away. The smoke stings my eyes, the paper curls up into smoke, the smoke into air, and the air into nothing. Little Uncle takes the end of the red accordion-shaped packet to the nub of his lighter. This time all of us retreat from the tombstone, Little Uncle plugging his ears before the impossibly loud popping. Fireworks are our music for respect.

We take turns to bow in front of the burning heap of multicolored paper. The husband of third aunt does not bend his knees as deeply as my other relatives do; he is not blood-related to my great-grandfather. I thrust my hips back and fling my arms especially high up, as with a chair pose in yoga. My limbs are too long and too awkward to be graceful.

When I turn around, my relatives are already stepping over the reeds. The next grave has my great-grandmother. The one after that is my grandfather's. My father didn't make it back in time from...