Originally posted by peebrain:
Coming home
My father wore his skin like a sewn-in shroud,
when he died his belly sighed and his eyes grew wide:
a pale moon smile glazed his fine porcelain face.
On the seventh day, the priest knocked on our doors,
flung rancid flour on the oak of our floors, as if it was his
right.
He was right, the dead knock on doors in the thick of night.
When the clock chimed twelve, my mother, turned matriach by
living,
heaved a string-reddened cleaver with all her corded might,
her sudden wail loud enough to still the living and raise the
dead.
Tonight my father strolled on a pavement of white.
I could have sworn that I heard him laugh as he shrugged
away his souless shroud and sucked on the marrow of melting
wax.
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peebrain,
this is a very good piece. keen observations.
it tells of the Chinese belief that a dead person will return for
one last time to his/her last dwelling place, to have a last look
at his loved ones.
after his return, you are supposed to see his footprints in the
flour on the floor. Many people said they do.
the cleaver tied with red string is thrown on the floor after the
deceased is supposed to have left, the louder the noise it made ,
the better to ward off evil
or any other ghosts that lingers.
"sucked on the marrow of melting wax" : nice way of expressing
candles used in such ceremonies.
wondered if the ang moh understand such beliefs? 
