An unexpected turn of events had decided to rear its head rudely into the middle of my trip. On the 6th day of Chinese New Year, at the end of February, Uncle Michael died. A little crude, you say? Passed on, passed away, deceased? What is this obsession we have with avoiding death? When death comes a knocking on our doors or those of people around us, we freak out. We act as if every waking moment is not another minute closer to death. I, for one, freaked out.

After a 30minute cab ride, I arrived. The cops were there, the mortician (or whatever you’d call them) more people we didn’t know. Being one of the first few people to arrive, I was there when the forensic people were examining the body (gloves, camera, the whole outfit.) While uncles and aunts went into the room to see what was going on, I could not bring myself to. And for that I thank god.

Sixty minutes into my arrival, I was holding onto an aunt who was hysterical as Uncle Michael’s body was carried out in a white body bag on the shoulders of his younger brother and two complete strangers.

Why do I feel compelled to tell this story?

The funeral is done, other things that needed settling have been settled. If I never brought up this issue again, it would be alright. But the events over the few days after have left me hanging. A little bit traumatized, a little shell shocked. This was my first real brush with death, as an adult. I was about 15 or 16 when my grandmother died but that had little implication in terms of responsibility.

According to custom, all younger family members are to pray for Uncle Michael’s peaceful journey into heaven. Since his death was so rudely sudden, nobody had time. See Uncle Michael never married. He was a sweet, sweet man minus the lifelong battle with schizophrenia. Perhaps because of that he was the sweet person that he was. Who knows?

Was I really close to him? No, can’t say that I know this uncle of mine very well. As a matter of fact, can’t say I know any of my uncles really well except for one maybe. The one I am currently staying with. Anyways, I digress.

The few days after his death were a whirlwind of activities and emotions. Money was a huge issue. Funerals do not come cheap these days. Not very many people showed up to pay their last respects. If a man’s life could be summed up by the people who show up at his funeral, Uncle Michael must have lived a very lonely man. No, I refuse to believe this. Some of us were there and that’s what matters.
Am I too quick to judge those who weren’t? Again I digress…this isn’t about pointing fingers and blaming others.

So much happened in that few days that I do not know where to begin. I remember standing next to my youngest uncle, joss stick in hand…my legs hurting from kneeling, bending down and standing up over and over again. Praying to a god/ entity I do not have a clue about. What was this ritual?

Questions of mortality, questions of life all came flooding into my mind as I was standing there. Although, at the time…an overwhelming sense of numbness was all that was present in my body. Uncle Michael is dead.

In a sense I feel honoured to be able to do this for him. When nobody else was there to pray for him, I was. From the first day right up until the very end, I was there. When his brothers did not show up for him, I was there. Surely there is nothing wrong in taking some pride in that? I was there sitting with my grandfather when he wept. Whether he noticed me there or not is immaterial. I was there.

On the morning of the cremation, I was also there. Younger family members are to walk behind the car carrying his coffin. So my 17 year old cousin, youngest uncle and I walked behind with our hands touching the back of the car. For 10 minutes we walk around the funeral lot before finally entering the burning parlor.

Whether it was the stress from days before or just the suddenness of it all, I broke down as we stood there watching the coffin being engulfed in flames. It is a sight I will never forget. What are they doing?! Why are they burning him? Why are my uncles letting them do this? It was a difficult thing to watch.

I will also never forget the sound of nails being knocked into a coffin. Nor my uncle’s face as we walked in a circle around him for the very last time, or seeing my grandfather cry for the very first time.

It was a rough couple of days.

But through it all, I kept thinking how proud my family would be of me. And if they were there, we’d be standing beside each other in prayer and in grief.

That night, my aunt called. My youngest uncle will not be able to make it, I have to go. We were taking the bones and ashes to his final resting place. I was afraid. Why are they asking me to do it, it’s not fair to expect that of me. I refused.

Guilt ridden, I finally did it. Following my uncle’s cue, a pair of chopsticks in hand, I picked up a piece of Uncle Michael’s bone and placed it into the urn. I am not grown up enough for this, I wanted to hide and cry.

And then it was over. The urn was brought to the wall and placed inside together with his spectacles and favourite ashtray. It was sealed. With the guidance of the undertaker and monk, I then did a ritual of using two coins to communicate with him, asking if he’s comfortable and if he will be okay if we left him there.

Growing up in a Chinese family, I have lived a life of rituals and superstitions. While I thought I was indifferent to these, I am now reconsidering. There must be some value in these age old practices that I am not fully appreciating. Whatever it is, if there was a cherry to be popped between being an adult and a child, events this past February has brought me a step closer to being an adult, full-fledged.