The
Ancestor In The Stone Chair
Luke Liu
©
Copyright 2025 by Luke Liu
|
Photo copyright (c) 2025 by Luke Liu. |
I
climb the green mountain with my father, each step stirring the scent
of damp earth and pine. It is Qingming, the Tomb-Sweeping Festival.
High above, a curved white tomb perches on the slope like a throne
waiting for its king. Locals call it a yizi fen—a
“chair
tomb”—because it resembles
a
grand armchair carved from stone. Indeed, the grave’s
semi-circular walls rise at my grandfather’s
back and sides, sheltering him in death as an armchair would in life.
In front is a low platform where we now stand, facing the silence of
that stone seat.
My
father motions
for me to help clear the weeds sprouting at the base of the tomb. I
kneel and pull at the stubborn grass. The white of the tomb has
dulled with lichen; in places it crumbles, leaving chalky flakes on
my fingers. We wipe the dirt from the central headstone—there
is no standing stele here, only a flat tablet set into the “backrest”
of the chair, etched with my ancestor’s name and dates. The
characters are formal and faded. I squint to decipher them, tracing
the grooves with a reverent finger. LIU, the family name, I
recognize; the rest, I only know from family lore. My grandfather’s
given name means “Prosperity,” a promise his life
struggled to fulfill.
Father
lights three sticks of incense and presses them into my hand. I smell
the sharp smoke as I place them in the urn at the tomb’s
foot. Together we bow—three times, deep and slow. I glance at
Father from the corner of my eye: his expression is unreadable, eyes
closed as if in prayer. Does he expect me to feel something
profound right now? A breeze skims up the mountain, carrying the
incense smoke toward the sky. I bow again, but my mind wanders. My
knees ache on the stone step, and I wonder if he is watching us—the
man whose bones lie behind this white façade.
In the silence, I almost imagine an invisible figure seated in the
stone chair, observing me with patient, heavy expectation. The back
of my neck prickles, as if a ghost’s gaze lingers.
When
the ritual bows are done, Father steps aside to unpack offerings:
oranges, steamed buns, a whole roast chicken split open, its glazed
skin gleaming. He lays them on the platform with careful
deliberation. I set down a small cup of rice wine, pouring a little
so it trickles onto the ground for Grandfather to “drink.”
The sweet-sour scent of rice wine mixes
with
incense in the cool air. We burn joss paper—mingbi,
imitation money—folding each yellow sheet before feeding it to
the fire in a rusted bucket. The papers flare bright, then ash away,
delivering currency to ancestors in the afterlife. I remember being
told as a child that if we didn’t
send Great-Grandpa enough money and goods, he would be left cold and
hungry in the other world. The thought terrified me then; even now it
leaves me uneasy. Are we truly ensuring his comfort, or merely our
own peace of mind?
My
eyes drift to the neighboring tombs scattered along the hillside.
Once, I’m told, this
mountain was
crowded with hundreds of chair tombs—a white scatter
interrupting the green canvas of trees. Each grave like a stone
armchair, commanding a view of the valley—a
fengshui-approved
resting place, facing the
rising sun and prosperous villages below. Back then, nearly every
family in these parts staked a claim on the slopes for their dead.
Ancestor worship runs deep here; to lay one’s
forebears in a grand tomb on a high hill was both filial piety and
family pride. My grandfather’s
tomb was built in the 1980s, well before I was born. Family lore says
he oversaw its construction himself, sparing no expense. The finest
white concrete and marble went into its making. Ten square meters of
mountainside carved out and terraced just for this—enough space
to seat an entire banquet, given to one man’s
memory. In those days, some families spent small fortunes—four
or five hundred thousand yuan—on such burials. To hear my
uncles tell it, it was a matter of face: a tomb needed to reflect the
honor of the deceased and the devotion of descendants. How else to
prove you had been a filial son or daughter than by the lavishness of
the grave you built?
As
a child, I absorbed these ideas without question. Filial piety—xiao,
the virtue of respecting and obeying one’s
parents and ancestors—was an unquestionable law of life. “Of
all virtues, xiao
is foremost,”
my grandmother would say, wagging her
finger when
I slouched or failed to offer tea to an elder. I grew up believing
that my family’s
expectations, even
those voiced by long-gone ancestors, were more important than my own
desires. I watched my father bow to his father’s
chair tomb each year with solemn duty. I learned the traditional
reverence: we care for the graves, we maintain the memorials, we
carry the weight of the family name. If we do this well, the spirits
of our ancestors will protect us and the family line will prosper. If
we neglect our duties, we invite disgrace—perhaps even
misfortune at the ghostly hands of the discontented dead.
Now,
on my knees before Grandfather’s
tomb, I feel that weight acutely. But I also feel something else:
confusion. At fourteen,
I am old enough to question silently what I would never say aloud. I
ask myself: is this really what Grandfather wants from me? My only
interactions with him are these scripted rituals—bow,
burn, present offerings, do not speak unless spoken to (and of
course, the dead do not speak). There is devotion in it, yes, but it
feels one-sided and hollow. I press my palms together, seeking some
genuine connection or response. The only answer is the soft crackle
of burning paper and the caw of a distant crow. The ancestral
expectation is deafening in its silence.
I
close my eyes and, in my mind, address the man in the stone chair.
Grandfather, I’m
here. An image forms: an old
man seated on the
white throne of his tomb, dressed in the faded olive uniform he was
buried in—the one from his days in the village militia. His
face is stern, as in the single photo we have of him. I’m
here, but I don’t know
if I’m
doing this
right. I offer
these thoughts into the
void. Are you pleased we keep coming? Do you really need the food,
the fake money? In my imagination, his lined face does not soften. He
looks distant. Perhaps I am not asking the right questions. Perhaps I
am not worthy of a response.
A
memory rises: when I was seven, I had refused to join the tomb
sweeping, throwing a small tantrum. I was afraid of the cemetery, of
ghosts. My father had insisted: “Your
grandfather is not a ghost to fear. He is family. We owe him
respect.” When I pouted
that I didn’t
remember Grandfather at all (he died when I was a baby), my father
said something that struck me even then: “He
remembers you. He sits up there watching. You mustn’t
disappoint him.” The idea
of an
invisible judge on the mountainside silenced me. After that, I came
along quietly. But the unease remained—the sense that I was
performing under scrutiny from eyes I could not see.
I
open my eyes and gaze at the name on the tombstone. The two
characters of my grandfather’s
name
stare back, unreadable as ever. For a moment, I resent him—this
stranger I call Ancestor, who commands from his high seat a loyalty I
have no choice but to give. What
do you
want from me? I
ask in my head. My
voice is swallowed by mist. Is it obedience? Success? The usual
script: excel in school, support the family, continue the lineage,
never stray, never question. A part of me trembles, because I know I
cannot fulfill all these expectations in the old ways. The world is
different now. Yet I feel that if I turn away from these rituals, I
am betraying him, and us.
Behind
me, Father clears his throat. “烧纸了没有?”
Have you finished burning the paper? I
snap out of
my reverie. The last of the joss paper has turned to fluttering ash.
“Yes,”
I reply softly. Father nods and steps
forward. We
take down the offerings—the food will be taken home or left for
the caretaker. The formalities are done. It’s
time to say goodbye until next year.
Before
we leave, Father pours a little fresh soil over the tomb’s
base, a recent custom encouraged by the local authorities to help
“return
green” to the mountain. I’ve
heard officials complain that these white cement tombs scar the
hillsides, prompting campaigns to cover them with earth and grass.
Some families have even removed their chair tombs under new
ecological burial policies. Tradition, meet modernity. Father had
grumbled about this: “They
want to take your grandfather’s
chair
away and plant trees on him. How is that respectful?”
I’m not sure how I feel. Part of me
agrees—these elaborate tombs consume space and money in ways
that seem more about the living than the dead. But I keep that to
myself. Maybe it’s
not my place, yet, to challenge Father or generations of custom.
We
gather our things and begin descending the narrow path. Father walks
ahead, balancing the empty food basket. I linger a few steps behind,
stealing one last glance upward. From this distance, Grandfather’s
tomb is half hidden by the mountain’s
contour. Only the upper edge of the white “chair-back”
is visible against a thicket of green.
In the
shifting mist, it almost looks as if someone sits there. I hug myself
against a sudden chill, but I do not feel afraid. Instead, I feel a
pang of empathy. He has been sitting there alone for so long.
That
thought surprises me—I never considered the ancestor’s
loneliness before. We always spoke of the ancestors as watchful
benefactors or names in a family register. But what if, in a sense,
he is waiting, bound by our reverence and also imprisoned by it? In
life, my grandfather was a proud, stubborn man. He fought in a war,
raised six children through poverty, and eventually saw them prosper.
He could be harsh—my father and uncles still swap stories of
kneeling on broom handles, of absolute obedience. A traditional
patriarch. Yet he also had a spark of ambition. He believed in hard
work and face,
and insisted on
building a big tomb as a testament to our clan’s
rise. I see now: he created his own mythology—a rags-to-riches
patriarch who would sit forever on a throne of stone, overlooking the
land of his descendants.
But
times have changed. The family has scattered—an uncle in
Shanghai, an aunt in Singapore, my cousin and I likely headed abroad.
The world is wider now. I wonder: if Grandfather were alive, would he
expect the same observances? Or would he adapt, as he once did in
life? I like to think he would. After all, he once let my eldest aunt
attend school when most girls didn’t.
That was his quiet rebellion. Every generation breaks some
tradition—not out of
disrespect, but
out of necessity. Perhaps my struggle is not betrayal, but a parallel
to his own.
By
the time we reach
the foot of the mountain, the sun has broken through. I walk beside
my father, thinking of that white chair on the hillside. I no longer
see Grandfather as a stern judge, but as a man shaped by his era—and
me, by mine. The guilt softens. I feel not defiance, but a quiet
resolve. I will remember him. But I will not be trapped. Filial piety
is not fear. It is love, and love can evolve.
In
the car ride home, Father is unusually quiet. I ask, “Dad…
do you think Grandfather was truly
happy with the
tomb?” He frowns, eyes on
the road.
“It’s
what he wanted. It’s what
we’re
supposed to do,” he says.
I press
gently, “But
are you happy doing it?” He
doesn’t
answer right away. Then, softly: “I
do it because it’s right.
If I
didn’t… I’d feel I’d
forgotten him.” He
glances at me.
“One day,
when I’m gone, you’ll
understand.”
I
nod, swallowing
the lump in my throat. Outside, the present rushes toward the future.
My father assumes I will follow his path. But in that moment, I make
a quiet promise—to myself, and to the ancestor in the stone
chair: I will not forget you. But I will honor you in my own way.
That
afternoon, I
slip a half-burnt incense stick into my pocket. Its ember is gone,
but the scent remains. A reminder. Later, I step outside and light it
again. Smoke curls into twilight. I bow my head. In my mind, I see
the white chair tomb on the green mountain, an old man seated
comfortably, posture easy, no longer a distant judge, but a patient
witness.
“Thank
you,” I whisper—uncertain
who
I’m thanking: the
ancestor, the
heritage that formed us, or the freedom to question it. The incense
fades. The conversation between past and present carries on, gentle
as the night breeze. And I walk toward home—finally, in my own
shoes.
Luke Liu is an
18-year-old writer based in Shanghai, originally from Wenzhou, China.
He is currently a high school junior and has not published
professionally. His nonfiction often explores memory, ritual, and
everyday traditions from his cultural upbringing. Though some of his
writing has received recognition, including a Gold Award from the
Harvard International Review and a win in the BPA global contest, he
remains an emerging writer who sees storytelling as a way to preserve
what is quietly fading. Outside of writing, Luke plays the guqin and
runs a youth-led NGO focused on endangered traditions. This is his
first time submitting to the Preservation Foundation.
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