那些日子實在說不上悲痛。習俗也不允許悲痛。她虛壽八十三,是喜喪。有親戚來吊唁,哭是要哭的,吃也還要吃,睡也還要睡,說笑也還是要說笑。大嫂每逢去睡的時候還要朝著棺材打趣,“奶奶,我睡了。”又朝我們笑,“奶奶一定心疼我們,會讓我們睡的。”

　　棺材是兩個,一大一小。大的是她,小的是祖父。祖父的棺材里只放了他的一套衣服。他要和奶奶合葬,用他的衣冠。靈桌上的照片也是兩個人的,放在一起卻有些怪異:祖父還停留在二十八歲,奶奶已經是八十三歲了。

　　I would rather say when that day eventually arrived we were not so sorrowful as imagined, also, the traditional custom didn’t allow too much sadness. She passed away at the age of 83, that was an enviable life span. As for her death, it seemed like an occasion on which the funeral turned to be a celebration. A number of relatives came, they cried on the funeral but then we ate, slept and chatted, as normal. Every time when my sister was about to go to sleep she said to the coffin, “Good night, grandma.”

　　And then she turned back to us, “Grandma loves us she will surly let us have some sleep.”

　　We laughed and agreed, as if our grandma were still around us.

　　There were two coffins, grandma slept in the bigger one while the smaller one was for my grandpa, not his body, but some of his old clothes. In his will several decades ago he told his family if he became a missing corpse in the war, he would be buried with his wife after she passed away, using his clothes to represent his body.

　　The photos of the couple put on the table also looked strange. My grandma was 83 while my grandpa was always at the age of 28, for all the past half a century.

　　我看著一小一大兩個棺材。它們不像是夫妻,而像是母子。我看著靈桌上一青一老兩張照片。也不像是夫妻,而是母子。為什么啊？為什么每當面對祖母的時候,我就會有這種身份錯亂的感覺?會覺得父親是她的孩子,母親是她的孩子,就連祖父都變成了她的孩子?不,不止這些,我甚至覺得村莊里的每一個人,走在城市街道上的每一個人都像是她的孩子。仿佛每一個人都可以做她的孩子,她的懷抱適合每個人。

　　我甚至覺得,我們每一個人的樣子里,都有她,她的樣子里,也有我們每一個人。

　　與此同時,她其實,也是我們每一個人的孩子。

　　I stared at the two coffins, they didn’t look like those belonging to a couple, but more likely to be a mother and her son. Then I saw the photos on the table, they also seemed to be mother and son. Why? Why I had the feeling of strange identity disorder when I stood in front of my grandma? I always felt my father and mother, now together with my grandpa, were all her children, even anyone in the village and anyone walking past the streets were her children. It seemed that her embrace could warm everyone in the world.

　　I even had the feeling that everyone of us can identify the parts of faces and bodies which are inherited from her, our appearances have something similar to hers more or less. She was everyone’s mother.

　　At the same time, when she died but we continue to grow old, she became a child of us to some extent.

　　我的祖母已經遠去。可我越來越清楚地知道:我和她的真正間距從來就不是太寬。無論年齡,還是生死。如一條河,我在此,她在彼。我們構成了河的兩岸。當她堤石坍塌順流而下的時候,我也已經泅到對岸,自覺地站在了她的舊址上。

　　我必須在她的根里成長,她必須在我的身體里復現,如同我和我的孩子, 我的孩子和我孩子的孩子,所有人的孩子和所有人孩子的孩子。

　　活著這件事變成了最慢。生命將因此而更加簡約,博大,豐美,深邃和慈悲。

　　My grandma had left us. However, I know very clearly that the distance between she and I is always short. We are closed as we were, no matter what happens. The life and death are like two sides of a river, I am here and she is beyond the river. When her soul float downstream and disappear in my sight I know I will swim across the water and stand on where she once stayed.

　　I must grow inside her root system, she must reappear inside my body, like my daughter, like my granddaughter, like the child of everyone.

　　Living on earth is a slow process. Life is simple, deep, beautiful and full of kindness.