Grandpa

Lung cancer. That was what my stubborn grandpa died of. Even the manner of his death was specifically chosen by his own hands, death by smoking—2 packs a day. He was a domineering figure in his heyday, a true dictator. His cantankerous voice gave weight to the finality in his words and going against him was considered a taboo in the family. It wasn’t his fault. Those times were hard on any parent who wanted to keep their children fed. But despite being undereducated and slightly old-fashioned, Grandpa abandoned the antiquated practice of patriarchy, thus treating my mom and aunt with a little more kindness than his five boys. My mom always said she was lucky.
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“Hey! Get up. The ritual’s over,” my cousin sister nudged me, already standing and stretching her body.

I tried to get up, but my legs were in a temporary coma. I sat back down, cursing.

“Paralyzed?” she asked.

“Yeah. Hurts like hell, my knees.” If you have no idea why my knees were killing me, you’ve probably never been to a traditional Chinese(Taoist) funeral. A quick summary of the things that you will witness: incomprehensible singing done by a Taoist priest, bad music, family members kneeling on the ground(regardless of surface texture) and the heavy smell of burning incense. Yes, we pollute, in the name of tradition and customs.

She grinned and took a place next to me.
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Money was a bigger issue back then. And for those who earned just enough to sustain a family, every single cent counts. As the head of the family, my grandpa had to be calculative, bordering the line of parsimony at times. The 60s came and went, soon followed by the 70s and 80s. By 2000, his children were all well off in the context of money. No longer were they required to scout every inch of the floorboard whenever a ten cent coin rolled off the table. Now, they dismiss the missing coin as something insubstantial.

For Grandpa, the idiom ‘old habits die hard’ was the very epitome of truth. Even with the sufficient financial support provided by his children, he was still keeping track of every shilling he had, unwilling to part with his money without good reason. I’m sure being Chinese is also a contributing factor. My grandma was absolutely livid when Grandpa refused to write a will, claiming that the legal fees were exorbitant. Even upon the moment of his death, a will was never drafted. That was how obstinate and cheap he was.
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Right, another thing to add about Chinese funerals, they go on for days. My grandpa’s was five days long, so his body was to sleep in the coffin for 120 hours before burial.

As tradition states, before the burial, the deceased must be returned home for the funeral. And so, my grandma’s living room had an addition for the five days, a wooden box with Grandpa’s body. For those days, we were to sleep together under the same roof as our dearly beloved grandpa. I have to admit the experience was of the most unexpected kind, instead of having nightmares about zombies, my sleep was fairly untroubled.
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Grandpa was also pretty fond of technology, a pity he never learned how to use them wisely. One of his favourite electrical appliances was the refrigerator. He believed that anything stored in refrigerator could be preserved for an indefinite time, including non-consumables. A few weeks after his death, I found a plastic bundle stashed deep inside the fridge. Curiosity got me to retrieve the unknown object. I opened the plastic wrapping and saw pens, yes, the writing instruments.

I showed the cold, frosted pens to my mother, who laughed at Grandpa’s antics. A thought hit me, maybe pens do last longer when refrigerated. I laid out a piece of paper and started testing, miraculously, nine out of ten of them actually worked. Two of the pens I took as a token of remembrance, they are now utilized for writing essays and stories, in room temperature, of course.
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We were gathered around Grandpa, knees touching the ground, hands holding joss sticks. Today marked the last day of the funeral, the day we bade him farewell.

The sound of an approaching vehicle, it was his time.