Withered Branches Without Cold Crows, incense and candles burned by desolate graves.
The sky was dim, making it impossible to tell the time. The old man's callused hands added more joss paper, its ashes fluttering everywhere. The flames lit his grief-stricken face, streaked with old tears, yet brought no warmth. He wore a thick, filthy, tattered cotton coat; the remaining snow was gray-black.
"Cough, cough, cough... Come and kowtow."
The burning incense gathered over the grave without dispersing. The adults knelt in front and knocked their heads heavily against the ground, while the grandchildren behind them clumsily copied them.
Paper ash drifted slowly upward with the smoke and fire. The wilderness blurred from near to far, impossible to see clearly. Every spark of fire visible across the barren slopes was yellow paper burning before some family's grave.
It was neither New Year's Eve nor Qingming Festival.
After honoring their ancestors, they went down the mountain along the rugged path, the desolate graves receding farther and farther behind them.
"Grandpa, when will we come visit the graves next time?"
"Perhaps it will be a long time. Cough, cough, cough. You must remember this path beneath your feet. Your children and grandchildren will still have to return. This old man is afraid he will never come back again..."
The coughing faded into the distance. By custom, no one turned back for another look.
They passed through a bare, withered forest.
"Remember your village address. Tell your children about it someday. You must not forget your ancestors, and you must not forget your roots."
"The daughters married out and the wives married in from the same village; relatives are tied to relatives. If you meet someone from home in trouble out there someday, you must not stand by with folded arms. We are