It’s already been three or four years since I started hosting my father-in-law’s memorial services, which my youngest sister-in-law used to handle. But even now, I still haven’t fully adjusted, and I always feel flustered when the day comes around.
I don’t follow any particular religion, and I often wonder whether these ancestral rites are really necessary. But I decided to take it on to make my mother-in-law—who lives far away and whom I can’t take care of properly—happy.
Why is it that something always comes up on the day of the memorial?
This time, it fell on a Saturday—on a day I had plans to go dancing.
“Is dancing more important than your father’s memorial?”
“Of course not! The memorial is more important.”
That’s how confidently I answered my husband—but I still felt uneasy. So I called my mother-in-law.
“Do it whenever it works best for you. Any time the day before is fine.”
Her voice sounded tired. She’s getting older now, and I could hear her trying to be understanding, which made me feel both grateful and a little sad. Still, since I was busy that evening, we agreed to do it earlier in the day.
I prepared a simple table with foods my father-in-law liked: fish pancakes, three kinds of seasoned vegetables, grilled croaker, and a soup. As I unpacked the groceries and got the soup going, I cleaned the fish. My younger child coated pieces in flour and egg, while my older child fried them. Once I finished prepping the veggies, my younger one sautéed them, and the older one washed the dishes. Then the younger one wiped the fruits and arranged them nicely on a plate. Meanwhile, my husband laid out a canvas cloth on a large table, placed Father’s photo in the center, lit a candle, and burned incense. We even picked out a nicer wine than usual for the occasion. By then, the croaker had finished grilling nicely in the microwave oven.
Thanks to what I had learned from my own father—who had prepared many memorial tables—I was able to teach my kids how to set it up properly.
“Red fruits go on the east side, white fruits on the west.”
When everything was in place, the table looked like a beautiful still-life painting.
“This is a work of art. Real art,” we said as we offered the wine and bowed, each of us thinking of Grandpa.
“Mom, why do we set all this up if Grandpa can’t eat it?”
“Grandpa was so good to you, wasn’t he? At the very least, you should take time once a year to sincerely thank him. Later, you don’t have to do this kind of ritual. Mom and Dad still do it because it’s part of our tradition, and we want to.”
Every Christmas, my father-in-law would send us plane tickets so we could spend the holidays in L.A. together. He’d decorate the Christmas tree with his grandkids, bake cookies, and hand them out to neighbors. He even used his retirement savings to help pay for their college tuition. To our children, Grandpa was Santa Claus.
“If you want to say something to Grandpa, now’s the time—say it before you bow.”
I scattered the rice from a small brass bowl in the backyard, where the rain had made the trees and grass especially lush. Birds chirped as they flocked to the scattered grains.
I wonder—when we die, do we really return to nature?
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