Last year, I had the rare chance to return to both sides of my ancestry for Qing Ming.
It wasn’t planned as anything spiritual. At first, it felt like tradition—something we were meant to do. But as we swept through the wild grass covering my grandfather’s grave, something shifted.
The work was harder than I expected. The gravesite was overgrown, the stone barely visible. We swept, pulled, cleared—offering not just incense, but effort. With every motion, I felt a quiet reverence settle over me. I wasn’t just doing this for him. I was reaching across time.
And then, resting gently on the earth, I saw it: a small flower. I hadn’t placed it there. No one had. It was simply… there. A quiet surprise. As if the land, or my grandfather himself, had left it behind.
Just as I was absorbing that moment, two large butterflies floated overhead. Silent. Steady. Like they already knew.
Later, on the plane ride home, I heard The Butterfly Lovers for the first time. I don’t know why it hit me so deeply—maybe because I wasn’t expecting it. Maybe because it felt like the moment was being tied together with sound.
That day changed me.
I felt something awaken. A quiet sense of belonging I didn’t even know I was missing. Since then, Qing Ming has become more than a ritual. It’s a pilgrimage. A return. A remembering.
I can’t go back this year. But that flower, those butterflies, that song—they return with me now. In memory. In spirit.
化蝶相隨，情意不滅。
Transformed into butterflies, they stay close—love and memory never fade.
About this series:
Pilgrimage of Petals is my quiet offering to the ones who came before me. Through these short reflections, I’m tracing the journey of reconnecting with my roots—through moments, places, and the unexpected signs that remind me I am never far from home.
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