Chapter Fifty: The Endless Stream and "Weeping for Seven Stars"

In the northeast, funerals are called "white affairs," and they follow an intricate and solemn set of rituals. It is not a silent farewell, but rather a grand and wholehearted send-off.

Aunt Sun's mourning hall was quickly arranged. Her portrait was placed at the center, with an incense burner and offerings set before it. Outside the door, white lanterns and long white streamers were hung. According to tradition, from the moment the elder "lays down," the incense and eternal lamp before the spirit must not be extinguished until the burial. This is called "running water," symbolizing the unending remembrance and filial piety of the descendants.

Sun Lei and Xiaoyan, as the eldest son and daughter-in-law, donned mourning cloth and knelt before the altar. Their task was to keep vigil and to greet every friend and relative who came to pay their respects.

When Yi Yi and I entered to offer incense, Sun Lei looked up, his honest face streaked with tears. His lips trembled, but he could not utter a complete sentence, only repeatedly kowtowing in silence. Xiaoyan knelt beside him, steadying him, and rasped out to us, “Doctor Jiang, Yi Yi, thank you for coming to see my mother off.”

Her voice was laden with grief, but also with the resilience of a new matriarch.

Yi Yi, imitating me, respectfully offered three sticks of incense, then knelt and bowed three times before Aunt Sun’s portrait. By the time she stood up, her eyes were already red.

From that day forward, the rhythm of life in the village revolved entirely around this "white affair." During the day, villagers took turns coming to Brother Sun’s house to help. The women cooked, while the men erected the mourning canopy for the funeral. At night, many would come of their own accord to "accompany the vigil," keeping the family company, offering words of comfort, and recalling stories from Aunt Sun’s life.

In this way, they diluted the family’s sorrow, using companionship to resist the solitude that death brings.

What struck Yi Yi most was the culture of "mourning wails."

In her understanding, crying was a private emotion to be hidden. But here in the snowy village, mourning for a lost elder was a ritual that demanded to be heard—a heartfelt outpouring.

Especially on the night before the burial, known as the "crying of the seven stars," relatives circled the coffin, walking round and round, crying out their longing and reluctance to part.

That night, Brother Sun’s courtyard was packed. Sun Lei and Xiaoyan led the way, followed by all the Sun family relatives. They did not wail chaotically, but rather intoned a kind of drawn-out, melodic lament.

"Mother—! Why did you leave us like this—!" This sturdy man, Sun Lei, wept like a helpless child. "You said you wanted to see your grandson go to school—! Wake up and see him—!"

"Mother—! You never had an easy day in your life—!" Xiaoyan’s voice was hoarse, tears streaming down her face. "Rest easy, I’ll take care of Dad, I’ll take care of this family—!"

Their cries were not empty shouts; each phrase carried specific memories and promises. It was a recitation of the hardships the deceased had endured, a confession of endless regret and longing, and a solemn pledge made to her spirit.

The force of their grief was contagious; the women in the courtyard wiped their tears, while the men, eyes red, drank cup after cup of strong liquor.

Yi Yi stood at the edge of the crowd, her small face pale, fists clenched tightly, her body trembling.

She had witnessed sadness before, but never such open, unrestrained grief. The sound of it seemed able to tear through the night, exposing every sorrow in one’s heart for all to see.

“Papa… they…” she stammered.

“They are saying their final farewell to Aunt Sun in their own way,” I told her softly. “To cry out the sorrow is to remember more deeply. To remember her kindness, her love, and then carry that memory forward into life with renewed strength.”

I watched Yi Yi, who seemed to be working to understand these words.

In the south, partings are reserved—"meeting each other in silence, only tears a thousand lines." In the north, farewells are unrestrained—"the wailing rises straight to the heavens." One turns sorrow into a silent undercurrent of the heart; the other lets grief burst forth like a mountain flood.

The forms may differ, but the weight of emotion is the same.

Yi Yi gazed silently at the flickering candlelight and the faces shadowed with grief. In her small world, her understanding of death was being reshaped by this rough yet deeply affectionate ritual. Death was no longer just an ending, but a grand celebration the living hold for the departed.

On the day of the funeral, the village was astir before dawn.

According to custom, the deceased must "set out" before sunrise.

The huge mourning canopy stood in the courtyard, and the cypress coffin, crafted by Carpenter Li, lay quietly in the center. The coffin was draped in a red cover embroidered with the character for "longevity." In the northeast, red is often seen at funerals; for elders who die of old age, it is called a "joyful funeral," a mark of a life fulfilled, and red is used to temper the sadness and to bless the descendants.

As the sky lightened, at the appointed hour, Brother Sun, as chief mourner, shouted, "Lift the spirit—!"

Eight strong young men hoisted the heavy coffin onto their shoulders. Sun Lei, holding the "soul-guiding banner," led the way, with Xiaoyan and the family following, their cries once more piercing the sky.

The funeral procession was long; nearly the entire village attended. Everyone followed in silence, walking the earthen roads all the way to the edge of the village.

Yi Yi walked among the crowd. The initial fear in her small face had given way to solemnity and gravity. She watched Sun Lei in front, his back bowed deeply, as if pouring all his strength into leading his mother through her final journey.

At the burial ground at the village entrance, the coffin was slowly lowered into the prepared grave. Before the earth was filled in, there was one last ritual.

Brother Sun approached Sun Lei and Xiaoyan, taking two red paper packets from his coat and handing them over.

"Lei, Xiaoyan, these are from your mother… left for you."

Kneeling on the ground, Sun Lei and Xiaoyan opened the packets to find crisp new bills inside.

"This is…" Sun Lei was stunned.

"Your mother, when she was still clearheaded, asked me to do this," Brother Sun said, his own eyes red. "She said she never left you a mountain of gold or silver. This is her small savings, a bit of private money, her ‘New Year’s gift’ to you. She said you’re both still children, and after she’s gone, she worried days would be hard for you—that you might not stand tall. She wanted this money to help you… so your days ahead would be steady and smooth."

At these words, just as their grief had started to subside, Sun Lei and Xiaoyan broke down again. The tall man clutched those thin bills, buried his face in the earth, his shoulders shaking violently.

Around them, the villagers turned away, each surreptitiously wiping their eyes.

Yi Yi, not far off, heard all of this clearly. Her body trembled, and at last, her tears fell like a string of broken pearls.

She finally understood.

This noisy, grand funeral that had lasted for days—with all its complex rituals, thunderous cries, and the endless exchange of human kindness—at its heart, it all stemmed from one thing.

From a mother’s deepest, most unadorned love for her children.

She feared they would be cold, feared they would go hungry, feared that life would treat them harshly, feared the burdens would be too great. Even in her final moments, her thoughts were of how she could pave the way ahead for her children. Those few bills, her "New Year’s gift," were the last, and the weightiest, protection she could give.

The earth began to cover the grave, shovelful by shovelful, blanketing the coffin and muffling the cries.

The sun rose in the east, casting golden light over this black soil.

The mourners gradually dispersed; life must go on.

On the way home, Yi Yi remained silent. It was not until they neared the doorstep that she tugged my hand, looking up, her tear-stained face now filled with an unprecedented calm and determination.

"Papa," she said, "I used to be afraid of death, afraid of farewells. I thought that when people died, there was nothing left."

She paused, gazing at the rising sun, then continued, "But I’m not afraid anymore. Although Aunt Sun is gone, her love remains in Brother Sun Lei and Sister Xiaoyan’s hearts, and in the ‘New Year’s gift’ she left behind. As long as someone remembers, as long as someone loves, that person hasn’t truly left, have they?"

I looked at her, my heart filled with emotion.

I nodded, squeezing her hand tightly. "Yes. Love is the one thing that can transcend life and death."

Ten years ago, in the rainy lanes of the south, she tasted the bitterness of parting.

Ten years later, on the black soil of the north, she finally understood the profound weight of life and death.

This grand encounter with death had not broken her; instead, in a single night, it made her truly grow up. She understood that the meaning of life is not in its length, but in whether you have loved and protected with all your heart.