My older sister's mango tree in the yard recently bore its first fruits. She took pictures of the early-season mangoes and showed them off everywhere. She said she never thought she'd live to see the tree bear fruit. And rightly so, she was 84 when she planted it, and now that it's bearing fruit, she's over 86. Then she looked a little sad: "I wonder how many more mango seasons I'll be able to harvest." I teased her: "Afraid of dying again?" She laughed loudly on the phone.
There are three sisters in the family, and I'm the only son, but I followed my wife's hometown to the city to start a new life. The ancestral home should have been handed over to my wife and me to maintain the ancestral rites, but because we live far away, I gave it to my older sister. When her children grew up, she handed it over to her nephew. It's said that they handed it over, but my nephew and his wife don't live in the ancestral home; they built a house next door. They just come over in the mornings to sweep, light incense, and water the plants in the yard. The yard is full of trees that hold memories. On the left gable end, my father planted a tamarind tree long ago, now a giant, ancient tree with a canopy that completely covers the ancestral home. Behind the house is a row of coconut trees that have been there since my great-grandfather's time. Strangely, after all these years, they still stand tall, bearing abundant fruit, but because they're so tall, no one bothers to pick them; they just fall off when they dry. My second sister selects the edible coconuts, peels them, grinds the flesh, and squeezes the coconut milk to make dessert for the children. Then she plants seedlings along the front fence. She says, "Let them have them, so the kids will have fruit to drink later." Honestly, the coconut trees my sister planted are almost ten years old now, each one densely packed with fruit. When the kids get tired of drinking the coconut water, they sell it to buy candy and snacks they like. In front of the house, when I came back for a memorial service after retiring, I stayed for a whole month and bought a crape myrtle tree to plant, along with a few rose bushes to make it look nice. It must suit the soil and climate, because the crape myrtle always produces beautiful pink blossoms every summer. And the roses bloom year-round, adding color to the house and making it less lonely.
Once a year, the family welcomes their distant descendants to gather for ancestral commemoration ceremonies. These are clan commemorations. The feast table stretches from the inner house to the front, overflowing into the hallway and courtyard. Each time, the sisters, aunts, and nieces work together, preparing and cooking from morning until noon the next day. After paying respects to their ancestors, the whole clan gathers to eat, chat, and sing. It is thanks to these clan commemorations that relatives can meet, get to know each other, and strengthen their bonds of kinship. Without these ceremonies, if everyone lived their own lives, future generations would likely never know their relatives.
Before, when I was still working, I only went home for the annual family anniversaries, my father's death anniversary, and my mother's death anniversary. For other anniversaries, my older sister took care of the rituals, and I only sent her a small amount of money as a contribution to the offerings. Since retiring and having plenty of free time, I've been able to go home more often. Sometimes I stay for a whole month to visit relatives. The air in the countryside is cool and refreshing, and the scenery is peaceful, making my soul feel relaxed and comfortable. I really want to move back home to live there; "even a fox turns its head back to the mountain when it dies," who doesn't long for their homeland in old age? The problem is, my wife has to stay in the city to take care of our two children and grandchildren. The situation of husband and wife living separately can't last forever. So I only stay for about a month before having to return to the city to be with my wife and children. The responsibilities of being a husband and father, now compounded by the responsibilities of being a grandfather, are incredibly heavy.
My sister called recently to say that our house was in terrible condition, and that we'd all have to pool our money to re-roof it and reinforce the pillars, otherwise termites would eat it all away. Hearing her news, I rushed back to my hometown. Then we held a family meeting and a clan meeting. Everyone contributed a little money, and those who couldn't contribute contributed labor. The renovation work lasted a whole month. The house is now spacious, clean, and beautiful again, just like before. To mark this important occasion, I bought a Thai jackfruit tree and an avocado tree to plant in front of the yard so that it would provide shade later. Everyone laughed, asking why I, at my age, would plant a jackfruit and an avocado tree. They said old people are like ripe bananas on a tree; you should plant something that bears fruit quickly, not something that lasts a long time. I laughed and replied: "I plant trees to remember this important day, and the fruit is for my children and grandchildren to enjoy later. I'm old now, so I have to plant something that will live longer than me so that my children and grandchildren will eat the fruit and remember their father and uncles who came before them." Since then, I haven't heard anyone laugh at me or slander me anymore.
After a month, I said goodbye to my beloved ancestral home, goodbye to my birthplace, to return to the city. On the day I left, the crape myrtle bloomed brilliantly pink in a corner of the porch, and the rose bushes displayed their fresh pink hues in the summer sun. I stepped out the gate, but my feet didn't want to leave, I lingered there, gazing back at the ancestral home, at the tamarind tree, the mango tree, the crape myrtle, and the rose bushes. Then I looked at the newly planted jackfruit and avocado trees in the front yard. Later, I wonder if I'll ever be able to return to visit them again; they'll surely be much bigger by then.
Seeing me standing there dazed, not getting into the car, my nephew patted my shoulder and whispered, "Don't worry, Uncle, you'll come back here again and again, and you'll enjoy countless more avocado and jackfruit seasons." I laughed, "I only hope to live long enough to enjoy the first harvest season, my dear." When I said that, I was acutely aware of the impermanence of life, that things are here one moment and gone the next. But it's okay, as long as the trees remain green and healthy, they will remind future generations of those who came before, those who planted the trees so that they can harvest the fruit today. That's enough happiness for me.
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