Picnic in the Graveyard

It was the Qingming Festival long weekend. Also known as Tomb-Sweeping Day, a traditional Chinese festival to honor the dead. The plan was to hike Wutong Mountain - the highest mountain in Shenzhen with my ex, but she sent me a message the day before that it would be better if we didn’t see each other again. Maybe the Spirits of her ancestors told her that, I thought, after all it was their weekend. I didn’t want to hike alone, so I called a few friends, but most of them were hungover. What else can I do? I wondered while I scrolled my Moments on WeChat (the Chinese version of Facebook feed.) Nothing grabbed my attention except a TikTok video of my former colleague doing squats in her bright teaberry Yogalicious leggings. I pressed like, then wrote in the comments: “I’d say, ‘God bless you,’ but it looks like he already did.” Let’s calm down buddy, I reminded myself that she wasn’t an ex, she was just a former colleague that I always wanted to sleep with, so I deleted the comment, and continued scrolling.

All of a sudden, my phone beeped, and there was a message on my WeChat. I wondered if Dionysus, the god of wine and ecstasy had gifted me with the power of telepathy. “Hey hey, long time!” she wrote, “any plans for the holiday?” I sent her an audio message telling her that all my expat friends were curing their hangovers, and all my Chinese friends were honoring their departed ones. “How about a picnic in the graveyard?” She wrote back. That’s freaky, I thought, but the idea was kind of perfect for the occasion.

“Let’s do it!” I wrote.

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Yes, the fun kind.”

I called a Didi (Chinese Uber), grabbed my hemp tote bag, and put a bottle of wine in it. Got a box of blueberries and brie cheese from the fridge, and whole-wheat crackers from the cabinet. Fetched my sunglasses, a fresh mask, and went downstairs to meet my driver. When I reached the cemetery, she was waiting for me at the entrance. She wore short white shorts and a low-cut lilac top. I gave her a hug, she kissed me on my cheek, and we entered the land of the dead.

We walked around in search of stone angels, flower beds, and butterflies, but there were none except the ones in my stomach. I examined the granite headstones that were in hues of black, white and grays, and the ancient Chinese calligraphy on them. As we walked further down, we heard a few people speaking in low voices, some sobbing, some sniffing. “Let’s find a place to sit,” she grabbed my hand, and we walked to an open field towards the back iron gates. I smelled fresh cut grass, someone’s cheap perfume, and something that reminded me of rotten eggs.

Neither of us thought of bringing a picnic mat, so she pulled a silk gown out of her handbag, and laid it down for us to sit on. “Why did you pick this place?” I opened the bottle of wine, and filled two paper cups. “Because I’m on call,” she took a sip from the paper cup, and licked her lips. I raised my eyebrows. Since when did she get into medicine? A few years ago, when we worked together, she was the social media campaign manager. “Did you change careers?” I cut a piece of brie cheese, placed it on a cracker, and passed it to her. “Not really, just a new focus,” she took a bite, “oh this is delicious.” All of a sudden, a soccer ball hit my back, I turned around and saw a little girl running towards us. She must have been four or five-years old. Her grandfather came over and apologized.

“You know what I just thought of?” I looked at my date, “my earliest memory is when I was four years old.”

“Really?” She refilled our cups, “I remember mine when I was three, but I wanna hear your story first.”

Remix of Ellie Burgin’s image

I told her that everyone around me looked sad. My maternal grandfather laid on the floor, wrapped up in a white cloth. “Nana, wake up,” I shook him, but before he could open his eyes, one of my aunts grabbed me and sat me down next to my mom. “Mamma, why is he not waking up?” I held my mom’s hand, and she started crying. I don’t know why that scene is ingrained in my mind as my earliest memory, even though I have photographs of me before I was four, but when I look at them, I can’t remember any of it, as if it was all fictional. “What about you?”

“Well, I remember I was very happy…” but before she could continue, her phone rang, “hold on a sec,” she answered. I couldn’t understand what she was saying in Chinese. After a minute, she ended the call, and stood up. “We gotta go,” she moved everything onto the grass, grabbed her silk gown, and put it on. “Where are we going?” I couldn’t understand what the emergency was. “Just record me on video, and don’t talk,” she passed me her phone. “I don’t understand,” I followed her. “Use your filmmaking skills, and make me look good.”

I pressed record. She walked up to a grave, covered herself completely with the Kimono-looking silk gown, and started sobbing. What the fuck! I walked around to capture her fake tears, I did a close up of the headstone, and then did a 360-angle shot. Then she stopped crying, kneeled down, brought her palms together in front of her chest, and said something in Chinese. Got up, cried a bit more, and then turned around and took the phone back. “Thank you, we’re done,” she said.

Is she going to fuckin’ explain what this gongshow was all about? We walked back to our picnic spot. “This is my side hustle,” she smiled. “Go on,” I said. “I’m a weep agent,” she started editing the video. WTF is that? I shook my head, and poured myself a cup of wine, and filled it to the top. “I cry on behalf of my clients.” She explained that she worked for an e-commerce platform that provided “grieving services” to strangers to mourn their lost ones during the Qingming Festival. Due to the strict prevention standards of COVID during the holiday break, many people couldn’t return home to mourn their lost ones, so this service was as hot as it gets. “China never seizes to amaze me,” I laughed.

I grew up in a family that didn’t believe in visiting graves. “The soul is what matters,” my grandmother used to say, “the flesh is dust, and nothing else.” But I remember my friends visiting the graves of their ancestors, they watered them, placed flowers on them, and prayed in front of them. Though I understood the reasons behind my family’s beliefs, I also saw the beauty in honoring the ones that have moved on. But weep agents? C’mon.

“You know we can do so much together,” she said. I pictured her at my place, without the kimono, without the short white shorts, without the low-cut lilac top. “Let’s get out of here,” I got up, gave her my hand, and pulled her up. “But I never told you about my first memory,” she came closer, and looked into my eyes. I looked at her lips, “you can tell me in the cab.” And then her phone rang. She picked up. I could hear a harsh voice on the other end. She lowered her eyes, and hung up.

“What happened?”

“Umm…I got fired.”

“WHAT? Why?”

“I cried in front of the wrong grave.”

I kept a straight face, held her in my arms, and pictured her clients reacting to that video. She pulled her head away from my chest, “this sucks,” she looked at me. “You know what?” I held her hand, “how about you send the video to the right family?” I produced my biggest grin. She slammed her hand on my chest, “it’s not funny, I’m in a bad mood.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” I picked the empty bottle of wine, and put it in my tote bag, “just think of a happy memory,” I passed her the silk gown.

“Like what?” She folded her kimono, and put it in her handbag.

“Like your first memory,” I put the rest of the stuff in my tote bag, “didn’t you say it was a happy one?”

“Yes,” she smiled, “I was with my grandmother, we were on a mountain, and the air was fresh, but…” she lowered her eyes, “she’s dead now.”

At that moment, I felt something, something magical, “let’s go to Wutong Mountain,” I said.

“Why?”

“To honor your grandmother.”

“That’s perfect,” she smiled, “but I need to change first.”

Hope she wears her bright teaberry Yogalicious leggings, I thought, gave her my hand, and we walked out of the land of the dead.