The Things I Didn't Believe as a Kid — I've Picked Them All Back Up

When I was little, every Qingming Festival and Winter Solstice, my grandpa would burn joss paper.

He’d call my brother and me to join him. We didn’t really understand what we were doing — we just knew we got to play with fire, which was pretty fun. The foil would curl up in the flames, turn to ash, and float away. We’d squat nearby and watch, poking at it with a stick now and then.

Grandpa would murmur something under his breath, saying he was sending money to our great-grandparents. I’d think: they’re gone — where exactly is this money going? You burn it and it’s just… gone.

Kids don’t believe in these things.

Later I grew up. School, work, moving abroad. These rituals drifted further and further away, and I never felt like I was missing anything.

In 2008, my dad passed away.

In 2023, my mom passed away too.

And then, suddenly, I picked up all those things I never believed in.

Today is Qingming Festival, and it also happens to be Easter in the West. I’m home alone, folding joss paper sheet by sheet, lighting it on fire, watching it burn.

As the flames flickered, memories played before my eyes like a short film.

My dad teaching me to ride a bike, holding the seat from behind, saying “you won’t fall.” My mom asking “have you eaten?” every time she called, as if whether I’d eaten was the most important thing in my life. My grandpa’s silhouette, crouching on the ground, burning joss paper. My brother and me racing to toss paper money into the fire.

I thought I’d forgotten these moments long ago. But they were always there.

As a kid, I didn’t understand what burning joss paper was about. Now I do — it’s not about sending money. It’s about sending love. It’s not something they need. It’s something I need.

This ritual gives you a moment to stop and think — really think — about the people who are no longer here. On ordinary busy days, you don’t dare to think about them, because it hurts when you do. But on Qingming, you allow yourself to feel that sadness for a while.

I don’t know where the joss paper goes after it burns. But I hope — if there really is such a place — that my mom and dad receive it.

Mom, Dad — I miss you so much.