I’ve always associated the start of spring with what I have called “cemetery season” for as long as I can remember. My family always gets together around this time of year and visits relatives buried in both NY and PA. The tradition is known as “Hong San” and is associated with the Chinese tomb-sweeping “QingMing” festival. My mom always vaguely refers to it as “the Chinese holiday” (and we have never once called it the QingMing festival). For me, it was always just an association with the season - always occurring sometime after the first day of spring but before Easter.
We plant flowers, set out food, and burn incense. After my uncle passed away from COVID (three years ago this month… just days before his 60th birthday), I also started painting rocks and bringing those to leave on top of the tombstones, too. It was something I had started doing for myself during the pandemic (as a way to process trauma and grief) - and now has become something I do annually for this occasion, too.
When I tell friends that my family does this every year, I feel like most of them say “that’s so nice” - which I suppose it is. I’ll admit, though, I have felt disconnected from the tradition some years. Especially as a kid, it was hard to find meaning in planting flowers for people I had never met. Of course, as I’ve gotten older, I can now put more faces to tombstones… because that’s how time and life works.
This year, I offered to pick up the flowers for our PA trip (as I was planning on going to Trader Joe’s for groceries anyways). Picking out flowers feels like it carries more weight now, actually knowing who they’re for.
Last Saturday, in celebration of national poetry month, I went to a poetry reading with Alicia Cook at Chapter One Bookstore. It was the rainiest day, but that made for an extra cozy and intimate event… like adult story time. Alicia Cook’s work mainly explores the topics of mental health, addiction, and grief. She read from her mixtape series, and I ended up bringing home her most recent poetry collection The Music Was Just Getting Good. It was the perfect thing to curl up on the couch with that evening (with the dogs, too, of course). This blurb on the back cover really resonated with me:
"Grief is not solely for death. We may grieve who we used to be, moments that never came to pass, physical places, and, of course, people; people who've died, but also those we had to leave behind."
Brianna Pastor was also supposed to read from her debut book Good Grief, but unfortunately had to cancel last minute due to being sick. Her poetry found me at a time in my life when I was really struggling a couple years ago, and I have been a fan of hers ever since. Coincidentally, I had briefly met Alicia in line at Brianna’s book signing last year - so when I saw them doing this joint event this year it felt serendipitous.
At the end of the event, there was an open mic where others were encouraged to share their poetry. I don’t typically dabble in writing poetry, but I had jotted down something in my notes app on my phone (while brushing my teeth a couple nights prior) *in case the urge struck* to share something. It felt very unfinished at the time - so I ended up not having the courage to share it. I’ve been tweaking it over the course of the last week, though. I’m still not sure it’s “done” but I’m choosing to share it here, anyways:
I can hear your laugh in my head
But I’ll never hear it with my own ears again
Only in my mindI still have your birthday voicemail
Why didn’t I pick up the phone more?
Can’t return your call now“I bet you’d order that flavor”
I think to myself at the ice cream parlor
Before ordering it - in your honorI can’t wear that shirt
It’s dressed in the memory of you
Yet in my closet it remainsI find photos tucked in old journals
That I can’t get rid of
But also don’t want to keepI wore a locket around my neck
They all thought it was a boy
No, you were my best friendI try to escape the reminders
The place, the thing, a color, a song
You’re everywhereI meet someone with your name
Impossible not to think of you
And how it’ll never be the sameI regret never learning Chinese
Questions I’ll never get to ask
Stories you’ll never get to tellI paint rocks for you these days
Although I won’t see your smile
Never got to say goodbye
I wrote this in groups of three lines (originally, pairs of two lines). Each set of lines is written with a different person in mind. One set refers to a pet. Most of these people (and the dog) are dead, but not all of them. I also think certain lines can apply to multiple different people and situations.
There is something so raw and vulnerable about poetry - which is probably why it can feel so liberating (but also scary) to write. I’ve always thought that writing good poetry was hard - intimidating - like writing song lyrics without a melody or instrumental backing to distract from its contents. But maybe that’s also what makes it resonate so strongly. Without the noise, it’s a path straight to the heart.
The next day (the day after the poetry event), is the day my family planned to do the 4+ hour round trip road trip to PA (for “Hong San”). It felt fitting to follow up a day of listening to and reading poetry rooted in grief with that trip. Another rainy day (also fitting).
My cousin Jordan recently shared a blog post about her mom (who passed away from cancer 10 years ago). She mentioned wearing her mom’s favorite color and going out for ice cream (and getting the flavor that reminded her most of her). On the way back home to NJ (from PA), we always stop at this chocolate shop (that also doubles as an ice cream parlor). I ordered a scoop of “triple chocolate sin” (in a chocolate waffle bowl) in honor of my grandpa - who loved his chocolate (and his coffee). My brother ordered vanilla, which I think was my grandma’s favorite (although I’m not sure that’s the reason he chose it).
Grief isn’t something that ever goes away. You just learn to live with it. Some days and some reminders hurt more than others. While others, can bring a smile or a laugh. There’s something extra sweet about the intentional moments we choose to have - with someone particular in mind. But even those intentional moments can feel a little bitter(sweet).
Whatever or whoever you’re currently grieving, I hope that you are being extra gentle with your heart. Know that you aren’t alone, and that it’s just one of the many things that makes us all beautifully and universally human. 💕
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