It was the year of my 12th birthday, and according to the Chinese zodiac, it was my year. The Year of the Pig, which I was born in 12 years ago. To most Chinese people, I would be considered a very lucky person. My own birthday was on August 8th, and the number 8 is the luckiest number in China. That's why the Beijing Olympics started on 8/8/08. The number 6 is also considered lucky, and I weighed 6.6 pounds when I was born. But while being only 11 years old at the time, I naturally believed that 2007 would be the best year of my life. But my supposedly lucky year seemed to show that all these superstitions make no guarantee; except the guarantee to be misleading.
My parents wanted me to stay in China longer for summer break so I could improve my Chinese. Two months, they decided should be enough. So yes, I stayed in China from the day school ended to the day before my birthday. My dad came with me to stay for a few weeks and to visit his parents, and then my mom came to visit her siblings. But just the week that my mom arrived, a tragedy hit our family.
My parents wanted me to stay in China longer for summer break so I could improve my Chinese. Two months, they decided should be enough. So yes, I stayed in China from the day school ended to the day before my birthday. My dad came with me to stay for a few weeks and to visit his parents, and then my mom came to visit her siblings. But just the week that my mom arrived, a tragedy hit our family.
My mom's sister-in-law has been diagnosed with ovarian cancer for over a year. I wasn't exactly that close to my aunt, but I loved her and she was always nice to me. I guess it never really dawned on me that she might die, because I didn't think her cancer was that bad. And it wasn't, at first. So the week my mom came back to China wasn't the best vacation time she has spent. Right when she came, she started going on and off to the hospital, visiting my aunt and returning with news. But the news they brought back weren't intended for my ears. My parents only let me visit my aunt once at the hospital, but I didn't really talk to her much. Everyone knew what was coming. But I failed to realize that even though my year was supposed to be lucky, terrible things could still happen.
After that, my parents didn't let me go visit again. I'd pass the hospital sometimes when going somewhere else, but that was about it. When my parents returned, I'd ask them how it was, but they didn't say much. But one day I didn't even have to ask. My parents came in slowly, their eyes glued to the floor, avoiding my gaze. No one made eye contact or said a word. Utter silence. My mom finally found the courage to pick her head up and give me the news.
"She's dead." Her voice was barely a whisper, but I could sense her words. She's dead. The words rang in my ears. It was unbelievable to me. Her death was so hard to accept that I couldn't even cry. Suddenly, my anger blazed before me. Why didn't my parents just let me see her one last time? I knew I might've been too young to understand, but I had never known anyone that died before. And at that moment, all I did was stand there dumbly, wondering what a person like me would do in this situation. Should I sob uncontrollably in the open? Or run to my room and cry in silence? I didn't know what to do.
Her funeral was a few days later. All of the kids wore white sashes on their heads, to symbolize the color of death. We each set flowers on the table, and offered food for her spirit. But the worst part was when she got cremated. That's when I started to realize that my aunt was dead. I would never be able to see her gentle face again. I would never be able to hear her voice call for me, just to sit by her bed and hold her hand. She would never walk, talk, or smile sweetly at me ever again. I turned away from the crowd watching the deed, and felt guilt and regret. Why didn't I talk to her more often when I had the chance? Why didn't I feel grateful for every minute I spent with her when she had cancer? This was supposed to be my lucky year. But my trip to China had only brought tears, anger, and made me desperately homesick.
During the actual funeral, my mom took me away so I could sit on the stairs and cry. I could hear my cousin sing mournfully in the background, and I smelt paper money being burned. I felt bad for my cousing, because she had just gotten engaged a few days before her mother passed away. I noticed the ashes of my aunt, in a tiny wooden box about to be placed into the grave. And then I realized that all of this Chinese Zodiac, my lucky year, and the lucky numbers on my birth certificate were all just a bunch of false beliefs strung together to give people something to believe in.
Don't depend on superstitions, I told myself as I felt a tear run down my cheek. It'll let you down.
After that, my parents didn't let me go visit again. I'd pass the hospital sometimes when going somewhere else, but that was about it. When my parents returned, I'd ask them how it was, but they didn't say much. But one day I didn't even have to ask. My parents came in slowly, their eyes glued to the floor, avoiding my gaze. No one made eye contact or said a word. Utter silence. My mom finally found the courage to pick her head up and give me the news.
"She's dead." Her voice was barely a whisper, but I could sense her words. She's dead. The words rang in my ears. It was unbelievable to me. Her death was so hard to accept that I couldn't even cry. Suddenly, my anger blazed before me. Why didn't my parents just let me see her one last time? I knew I might've been too young to understand, but I had never known anyone that died before. And at that moment, all I did was stand there dumbly, wondering what a person like me would do in this situation. Should I sob uncontrollably in the open? Or run to my room and cry in silence? I didn't know what to do.
Her funeral was a few days later. All of the kids wore white sashes on their heads, to symbolize the color of death. We each set flowers on the table, and offered food for her spirit. But the worst part was when she got cremated. That's when I started to realize that my aunt was dead. I would never be able to see her gentle face again. I would never be able to hear her voice call for me, just to sit by her bed and hold her hand. She would never walk, talk, or smile sweetly at me ever again. I turned away from the crowd watching the deed, and felt guilt and regret. Why didn't I talk to her more often when I had the chance? Why didn't I feel grateful for every minute I spent with her when she had cancer? This was supposed to be my lucky year. But my trip to China had only brought tears, anger, and made me desperately homesick.
During the actual funeral, my mom took me away so I could sit on the stairs and cry. I could hear my cousin sing mournfully in the background, and I smelt paper money being burned. I felt bad for my cousing, because she had just gotten engaged a few days before her mother passed away. I noticed the ashes of my aunt, in a tiny wooden box about to be placed into the grave. And then I realized that all of this Chinese Zodiac, my lucky year, and the lucky numbers on my birth certificate were all just a bunch of false beliefs strung together to give people something to believe in.
Don't depend on superstitions, I told myself as I felt a tear run down my cheek. It'll let you down.
