Yesterday was January 28th. The date on my one-way ticket to Colombia, the first stop on my solo adventure across South America. It was also the 4th week of my dad’s death, and in Buddhist tradition, the day to disassemble his alter (it should be the 7th week, but Chinese New Year cut it short).
I’ve been dealing very well with grief, if I’ve even felt it at all. Once in a while I catch myself spacing out, but that’s about it. It hits my mom harder—her patience diminishes and temper rises sky-high, and I’m trying to be understanding and keep my cool but damn, it is hard.
It’s also hard to miss my dad when his presence is so strong, but the act of removing this symbolic alter made his death feel real. I mean, it is real.
Everything still felt quite normal when dumping the incense ashes, pouring out the coffee and baijiu offerings, and spreading the ashes of burnt joss papers in the bushes. Reality struck when I had to take down his portrait.
In the afternoon, my mom and I flew to Chengdu, where I am now writing this post at a cafe called Wild Pigeons (lovely name, isn’t it?). On the 31st, I’ll go to Chongqing to celebrate Spring Festival with my grandmother. Then, I’ll be in Beijing for a few weeks to deal with my dad’s apartment, and to tick off the checklist I googled for What to do When Someone Dies?
Until then, I’ll be enjoying Chengdu on a diet (last time I overindulged).
What does grief look like?