Burning paper money for the deceased is somewhat of a tradition in Chinese culture. I don't exactly remember what the paper money is called in mandarin, but it translates to something like gold paper. Sometimes it's called ghost money.
The ghost money is made of coarse bamboo paper, or sometimes rice paper, but I think I got the bamboo kind. There's a stamp of a red character that I might've known but long forgotten on the side, like how I used to scribble on the side of my text books. There's pieces of metallic paper on the front of each piece, and a seal at the top of the stack.
I start a fire with some branches laying around and my lighter, and soon my familiar orange friend is beside me again, breathing warmth. Flipping the stack over, I begin to fold each rectangle by sliding the top backwards and tucking it under. You can get quite fast if you get used to it.
"For you, Lily," I say quietly, throwing the money into the burning pot. "Buy whatever you want. Pretend it's your birthday, or New Year's. Whatever you wish." I watch the orange flame flicker and eat at the paper, stealing it of colour and form. All that it leaves is grey ash.
I fold another stack and feed it to the fire. Speckles of the metallic paper sputters out, rises in the air and for a moment I thought I felt her with me.
The flames grow, a colossal tower of heat, dancing and licking at the air around it. The ash flutters everywhere, rising with the hot air and I imagine each piece is going where Lily is, and that she is receiving it all.
I pray that maybe she would forgive me.
YOU ARE READING
combustion
Short StoryWhen paper burns, it doesn't just turn to ashes. This is the story of Lily and Keaton. Of the boy who was hopelessly lost, and of the girl who was his oasis in a sea of strangers. Most of all, of how he found himself turning paper to ashes.
