the point of it all
written: 9:54 p.m. on Monday, Dec. 30, 2002

We stepped over weeds and drains and dirt paths, trying to figure out which grave was the right one. It was like trying to search for a needle in the middle of an ocean, and it didn't help that all of us, my mother, brother and I, couldn't remember where it was. And because the tombstones look alike from far, it was difficult pin-pointing the right one.

But we found it, after a few minutes of wandering about, brushing off ants and other insects. My mother had a little shock when she saw that her father's grave was overgrown with weeds. They crawled everywhere in all directions, but a few flowers blossomed and I thought that should count for something.

My mother insisted on pulling out the weeds. She got started, and I could hear the sound of the roots being yanked out of the soil. She was intent on her work, and I didn't know what to think. It was hot, I had a headache, and I was surrounded by death. The only signs of life, besides us and a man at the other corner, were the growth of the weeds, of grass, of other plants that were apparently an eyesore when they grew all over the tombstones.

My brother stood in front of me, and both of us watched my mother at work. I was dying to leave, but there were still a plenty of shit left to pull out, so once again, I kept silent.

"Go pray to your grandfather," my mother said to me in the middle pulling out a string of leaves. "Get on your knees. Do it."

"Nah," I replied. "My knees would hurt."

Mother made a 'tsk-tsk' sound but didn't push it. To satisfy her, I clasped my hands together in front of me and, standing to the left of the tombstone, shook them half-heartedly to an image of my grandfather, in an attempt to imitate the way of showing respect to the dead. My heart wasn't in it though, and it was obvious for whoever witnessed it.

My mother went about her task somemore, and I was beginning to get ticked off. The cemetery in the afternoon is very different from the cemetery in the early evening. There was no sunset, only humidity and the unrelenting glaring of the sun down upon our backs. There are no trees around so shelter is out of the question, unless one thought to carry an umbrella, which didn't occur to us.

I wouldn't be surprised if I was the only one that minded. I can't read my brother's mind, but he at least is more innocent and naive than I am. He doesn't mind going through the motions of keeping with tradition, but I have long since stopped seeing the point of it all. It was hard to when I don't believe.

"Come help me pull them out," my mother said again, to my brother and I, while still bent over and busy with her task. I looked at the ground she stood on. Around her, it was covered with once-fresh leaves and plants that had now started to decompose, however slowly. And my grandfather's tombstone? Looked way worse than before, with holes in the grass patch and bits of weed that refused to budge stuck almost everywhere.

I didn't move, and neither did my brother. He didn't see the need to pull out the weeds (but they were actually plants, just grown in the wrong places at the wrong time), for they were flowering, and the flowers were pretty. So my mother continued by herself while my brother and I stood aside and watched.

Finally, she was done. Dusting her hands off of dirt, she stood up straight. She came over to where I was and plucked out young stems that had started to grow in the bowl where the candles that are lighted when my family makes offerings to my grandfather go. She muttered something about how messy the tombstone was, how it had been a long time since the whole family had been there, how it needed to be looked after.

And then we were ready to go.

"Tell your grandfather we're leaving," she instructed my brother and I, at the same time clasped her hands in front of her and showed her respect. My brother immediately did as he was told.

I stood aside and watched, my hands remaining firmly by my sides.

Mother saw it. "Yelen, tell your grandfather we're leaving," she repeated. She wasn't pushy, but she was firm.

I sighed mentally and did what she told me to, and all the while, my mind was a blank.

But it was just a gesture. It was easy to go through the motions, but what is the point when my heart wasn't even in it? I don't believe in the religion, but I tag along whenever my entire family visits, out of respect for the traditional aspect, for my grandfather's religious beliefs, for my grandmother's religious beliefs.

It's easy to go through the motions. But it's hard to see the point when you're drifting from your heritage.

On our way to the car we passed by a tombstone that was covered with mimosas, and not a speck of grass could be seen. The marble itself was dirty and grey, teeming with dirt, run-down and abandoned.

before sunrise // before sunset

Previously:
- - Tuesday, Aug. 29, 2017
I'm moving. - Sunday, Jul. 11, 2010
In all honesty - Tuesday, Jul. 06, 2010
What I want for my birthday... - Sunday, Jul. 04, 2010
On Roger's behalf. - Friday, Jul. 02, 2010