No trace of ashes

The ashes of the paper money that reflected my tear-streaked face dozens of times, shone on my locked brows, burned my hands, and warmed the birds that accompanied you, were no longer traceable.

I stood in front of your grave, bewildered and overwhelmed.

Those ashes, too, were buried, and I couldn't find them.

It was still raining, and the newly turned up dirt was mud when I stepped on it. I knew the ashes were down there, I knew that you were down there, but I couldn't find them.

I don't know when this month, the staff of the mausoleum leveled the place, those machines, so close to you, so much noise, did they scare you?

The things that I keep dreaming about recently are not you calling me!

Although I think those trees cover your eyes from afar, winter is coming, the wind, the wind, who blocked for you!

I squatted down and burned paper money one by one. The weather is cold, so you must buy yourself more clothes. Buy whatever you like, and never save me like we did when we were living!

At home, so much fruit from the Mid-Autumn Festival is still piled up on the floor of the dining room, I don't want to eat it, it's tasteless to eat. Those you like, but I did not bring you today, I know, you are unable to enjoy.

The cold raindrops hit the burning paper money, and the fire was wilted and dark. The wind was also poured by the cold rain, the paper ashes stacked up one by one, forming a small hill-like column of ash, in the messy top of the newly turned soil. A few of them fell, and the ash still looked like paper, just like the strange hints you gave me in your dream, giving me a miserable, fond smile.

The raindrops hit the umbrella, dense, like a vicious needle shot down from the sky, gloomily from the air into my back, my hands were cold, my legs trembled from time to time, and the tears on my face were cold, stinging my cheeks.

I mumbled something, often swallowing the second half of the sentence raw in my stomach. Nothing, just the Mid-Autumn National Day, the holiday is a little long, almost did not go out.

Fortunately, there is no moon in mid-autumn.

The sound of chickens calling urgently came from the panicked, wet taste.

The smoke drifted away gently and lowly, and suddenly I found that my exhaled breath also followed them, grey and gray, like the air and the color of the sky.

A magpie landed on a tree not far from the cliff, I could not see what kind of tree it was, the tree was densely wrapped in unknown vines, not even the strength to struggle. The vines were also, grey and black, wet, and without the strength to struggle.

The magpies were chirping at us, one after another, a clear, calm, even somewhat enthusiastic sound. The black and white feathers were gently crisp and clean, like a spirit in the mist.

"Is that you?"

"Is that you talking to me?" I asked.

The magpie was still chirping and looking at me steadily.

I took out my phone, looked at the magpie, and said, "If it's you, I'll take a picture of you, but don't go!"

I took the picture, and after a short while, she flew up, twitching her long tail, and threw herself into the trees not far away.

The small cypress tree at your grave had crystalline yet cold drops of water hanging from every branch, and sometimes the drops fell and I could hear it fall to the ground and break. The trunk of the tree has two newly-haired leaves, yellow and green cut paper mold, like two small flames. A small unknown grass, just out of the ground four small leaves, tender green and delicate, like tears, but also like stars.

The fog gradually dispersed some, can barely see the outline of the opposite mountain beam, but the cold rain still tirelessly stabbed my umbrella, cold wind into my back silently, can not see the sky, only as if teardrops were rubbed gray clouds and fog.

The little warmth of the paper money has faded away, and only these little scar-like ashes are left for you to know that I miss you! Father.