Two days before Chinese New Year's Eve, several decades ago, my great-grandfather—my grandfather's father—was preparing the holiday pastries when he complained of some chest tightness and went to a small clinic to have it checked. The doctor gave him a cursory examination and said there was nothing wrong, so he went home. Great-grandfather said he'd lie down and rest for a while, and the others went back to wrapping pastries. A few hours later, the pastries came out of the oven, but Great-grandfather kept resting—forever.

And so, every year two days before New Year's Eve, there is a ceremony to honor our ancestor. After a pile of feudal-superstitious rituals, we have lunch, then in the afternoon head to the grave to visit the old man's remains. For as long as I can remember, this has been the tradition—rain or shine—except for one year when there was a "coup" at home and we were stranded in the capital. At this time of year, Great-grandfather's several children, whether they live in the city or in the capital, mostly come back: kowtow, reminisce about the scene from that year, repent for not having earned money sooner and fulfilled their filial duty, count how many years the old man has been gone, and so on. The procedure isn't hard; after many years of training, I can recite it backwards. I once believed this cycle could go on forever. Until these past couple of years, when the old folks in the city finally stopped coming back.

In the afternoon, no matter what, those of us at home always make the trip. Since it's not far, we walk in twos and threes. Perhaps because the Spring Festival is approaching, even though it's still technically winter, the trees sway gently in the soft breeze, and greenery is already abundant in the fields. The tall trees are all withered bare branches, but if you snap the tip of a twig, you can see fresh green already flowing within; though the ground is covered in endless withered yellow grass, you can find tender new leaves already straining free of the old leaves' shackles, caressing the gentle winds of late winter.

The group walks on and on, following the long narrow country paths, and the trees around them grow denser. Thin branches now and then scrape against their clothes with faint rustling sounds. Occasionally by the roadside you can spot a blackened pile of ashes, with a few shattered porcelain bowls among them. According to local custom, after the deceased is cremated, the ashes are still buried in a communal cemetery area, and somewhere along the road between the deceased's home and the cemetery, the family burns most of the deceased's belongings (clothes, bowls and chopsticks, the final bedding, and such) to ashes, as a final farewell.

The cemetery area is dotted with graves, mostly small earthen mounds with a tiny cement marker in front, inscribed with words like "Here lies my late father/mother, so-and-so," and "Erected respectfully by the unworthy son so-and-so, daughter so-and-so, son-in-law so-and-so"—the details vary, old and new mixed together. Occasionally you can see a rather ostentatious one, a little house shape molded straight from cement, which was demolished by the authorities, leaving only broken glazed tiles scattered among the bushes. Above and around the graves stand one large tree after another. Warm wind enters the woods, and the trees rustle, yet it feels all the more eerie.

Assemble, kowtow, a few double-kick firecrackers, burn half a basket of yellow paper "ingots," wrap up and go home.

Honestly, it all happened many decades ago. Though my great-grandfather was indeed handsome (I've seen his photo—bald head like Chiang Kai-shek, and his features probably wouldn't lose to the man's either), we never existed in this world at the same time, so it's truly impossible to conjure out of nothing much of this emotion called "longing." Still, for the sake of the family's feelings, what must be done must be done. During this, they set off double-kickers; they entrust their grief to violent oxidation reactions; and I join in damaging the environment, my mind occasionally wandering, my gaze drifting over the neighboring graves.

The neighbors—that is, the owners of those humble little mounds—their full names written in the center, are, as expected, mostly unknown to me. But the names of the sons and daughters beside them do ring a bell, and I softly read these names in the local accent, faces floating up in my mind. "Qinxian," "Qinmei"—so that's how their names are written. Though I've known these country women since I could remember—faces lined with wrinkles, huddling in little groups whispering secrets when something's up, bickering with their husbands when nothing is—I never knew their names. Perhaps they too once took pride in the beautiful names their parents carefully chose; perhaps they too had sunlit youth, innocent faces, pursuits, confusions, dreams... And yet, life; and yet, the years. Overburdened, they probably long ago had no leisure to care about such things.

My gaze settled on a small tombstone huddled in a corner: Wang Huajun. Where the children's names should be, there were only the words "nephew so-and-so," making it stand apart from the rest.

On the way home, the family mentioned that Wang Huajun—"that's Junjun, so-and-so's son, the one with leukemia"—and the related memories suddenly linked together. He lived in front of our old home. When I was little, the neighboring uncle who worked at a university out of town suddenly returned to the village. Unlike the aunt in front who was always teasing me, he seemed to have gone away for treatment at first, then kept taking all kinds of medicine at home, and after some time, funeral music sounded, and this uncle streaked across my life like a shooting star. Thinking about it now, apart from his mother affectionately calling him "Junjun," no matter how hard I try, I have no impression of his face or anything else.

Back home, an unexpected call came from the capital. It was the Old Master—that is, my grandfather's elder brother, an old man who had spent his whole life working with plants. Though he had published dozens of papers and visited America for many years, he remains as modest as a kindly grandpa next door. He always marvels at how capable young people are these days; when he said how much biology I knew, I reminded him that I merely did fairly well in high school biology. He realized with a start that what was once cutting-edge science has long since become common knowledge. Perhaps somewhat gratified—that through their efforts, much biological knowledge has gone from unknown to known, conclusions written into textbooks, popularized among tens of millions of schoolchildren—and perhaps somewhat wistful: he has written over a hundred papers, but how much more does he know than an ordinary schoolchild? (This suddenly reminded me of a certain colleague who secretly fumed for ages after the boss said, "I hear your English is pretty good"—probably the same kind of loss.)

After a few indirect probes, he got straight to the point: today was Great-grandfather's memorial day—had we gone to sweep the grave? Upon receiving an affirmative answer, his tone turned deeply comforted, and he grumbled with some indignation at his own advanced age, at how he could barely manage the trip home anymore. A few pleasantries, and the call ended.

The last time he came home was last October, for my sister's wedding, which happened to coincide with the National Day holiday. The old folks from the village who had worked their whole lives in places like Suzhou and stayed there to retire also found their way back, to look upon their long-departed homeland. After arriving, the Old Master strolled about, kicked open some small door, and a little girl's head popped out. "Who are you looking for?" "Go get your parents." A slightly bigger head appeared. "Oh my, oh my, it's you, sir! I'll go get my father, blabla."

The old man on the other side, hearing that our Old Master had come, trembled with excitement. "Old classmate! Old classmate! Forty years we haven't met!" They spoke of those high-spirited years, of the companions with whom they had once discussed ancient and modern matters, and as they counted them off, they sadly realized most were already separated by death. They sipped a few mouthfuls of light tea, talked about what each had done over the years, exchanged news of their children; the other man even gave his detailed address and warmly invited the Old Master to visit when he had the chance. The Old Master was deeply moved and said he would, he certainly would. In the end, with nothing left to talk about, the two just kept drinking tea, groping for something to serve as conversation, until the sun set in the west and the old classmate finally walked the Old Master out the door, said goodbye dozens of times, and only then departed. As for when that "goodbye" would come to pass?

Time is like wind, hoarsening the traveler's voice; time is like a blade, carving deep furrows into the traveler's face. And the traveler can only follow the thread of life, slowly walking toward death, then gradually being forgotten until not a trace remains. No matter how unwilling, how one resists, there is no escape.

Life is but a fleeting instant; even a peaceful one lasts only a few dozen years, and moreover, accidents often arrive unannounced—in a careless moment, one's time is up, there's no chance to do anything more, only to be arranged into some strange posture and burned away, reduced to char and blue smoke, forgotten by this world. Even with all one's strength, even with modest achievements, one is but a splash of foam in an endless tide, gone in a blink to who knows where. And yet—the departed are like this river, yet it never truly flows away. Seen from a single person's perspective, life is all darkness; but from the moment of the fertilized egg, having received this half-random DNA and a pile of strange initial settings, we have in fact been forcibly endowed with a set of rights and obligations. Even with that bit of freedom of our own, at root we are required to fight for our species, for our DNA. Whether it's family, culture, government, natural science, or any other faith, in the end there is only one purpose: to let the species' DNA continue. That's all.

Many years from now, we will all be long gone, while the bright moon still smiles upon the spring wind. I only hope that by then, though long without consciousness, what I have done all along will still be somewhat worthy of this set of DNA of mine... right?

Recently, an elder who had long worshipped our ancestors alongside us stepped out of our ranks and became the one we worship. Privately recalling bits and pieces of the past, I feel nothing but endless regret. I know very well that such regrets will only grow more numerous, and can never be avoided. Countless times I have imagined all kinds of terrible things happening; countless times I have not dared to imagine further. But no matter what I do, what can I possibly prevent?

One day, I too will leave this side and look back from the other. I suspect that may be my most relaxed moment—owning nothing, finally unable to lose anything at all.