My cousin died on the eve of the Chinese New Year.

He was called out by his “buddies” after dinner when he had already had a few drinks. He was, as I heard, not much in the mood, but went anyways. Probably didn’t want to be a buzzkill on such a festive day. He played a few hands of poker, drank some more liquor, and laid down on the couch in the living room of the host family. 

He never woke up again. The rest of the gang didn’t pay much attention to him as they played well into the night, and then till dawn. They rushed him to the hospital when they realized something was wrong. Too late. 

It was the liquor, or the cold or a bit of both, we would never find out as no autopsy was performed, which turned out to be a big mistake leading up to the string of ugly developments that followed.  

I couldn’t remember the last time we saw each other. It must have been at least three years. He was away most time of the year, working in the city to support the family. They went by, but were always tight with money. He always seemed cheery, though I must admit he wasn’t the most devoted husband or father, otherwise, he wouldn’t have left them on the night of family reunion.   

The host family claimed zero responsibility and would not appear at the negotiation mediated by the village cadres who were trying to stop this from spiraling into something that may make them look bad. But the couple was adamant that they would not pay a single dime.  

“Sue us as you please. We have nothing to lose.” 

Yes, they are going to court, but it’s gonna take months, even years. 

The group of young men present that night was divided on this though all believed that it was just his luck and they were truly innocent and, unlucky. In the end, those who don’t want to be at trouble with the law made their share of the compensation. 

Self-claimed creditors came to ask for money they loaned to the deceased. The devastated widow, my sister-in-law, brushed them off. “It’s your words against a dead body now. He had lent some to friends, but now that he’s gone, we won’t go collect it, and nor will you. ” As a matter of fact, she wouldn’t have any money to repay them even if they came with solid proof. 

She was diagnosed with breast cancer last year and has been going through chemo. Their three children were still very young, unaware of the tragedy that had hit the family. The youngest one even asked when to have the feast (after the burial). 

I felt sorry for my cousin. He was only in his early forties and would surely be greatly missed. But now, it seemed everyone blamed him for being dead. In situations like this, troubles of the living come before the lost life of the dead. I’m not sure if it’s just the rough way of life in the village or a general lack of empathy among my country folks. 

And I fear for the family. I can’t even begin to imagine their life going forward as the breadwinner is gone and the only adult left is sickly. 

I fear for my family too. My extended and dying family. My other cousin, paralyzed after a fall when working at a house-building site, died a few years ago after spending some miserable bed-ridden years. I was very fond of this cousin. He was so young and hard-working, always there for the family. 

Both cousins’ fathers, who were brothers, also died at relatively young ages, of different diseases. One of them, my second uncle, a grassroots master of calligraphy, would write the couplets for each family during the Spring Festival. Naturally, he displayed the temperament of a scholar and I found that very charming. That made him my favorite uncle. Unlike him, my third uncle was more “political”, being some kind of village official. He was always well-dressed, hurrying by on a motorcycle. You would find him at all important family events, always being, or looked like the one in charge. Personally, I liked to keep my head down most of the time, but I had no qualms about my uncle being such a high-profile figure. A family needs a person like that. That may give the family some standing in the village, but if not, it might be a kind of reassurance for family members that others would not easily mess with you. 

I wasn’t home when both of them passed away. When I came back during holidays, I could see from the road the new tombs and faded wreaths far out there in the fields. I stood there, watching, a strong sense of sadness welled up in me. 

The same happened to my father, his brother, and their father. 

When my sister called to tell me father’s gone, I was talking excitedly  with my dorm mates about something trivial and stupid. She told me to come back the next day as there was no point rushing home. My mind went blank. It’s like I was seized by crying. I just couldn’t stop. I wailed in the bathroom and then in my bed. 

I decided to go home. The overnight train carried a boisterous crowd. I closed my eyes, tears streaming down my face the whole way. When I changed into the home-bound bus, the first ray of sunshine came in, and all I could think of was that my own father was no longer here to see it. From that day on, every time I see the early morning light, I think of my father. 

These were the people I grew up knowing and loving. 

My father, the one with a strong sense of humor, always came home whistling. My grandfather, to whom I was not quite close, was a member of the amateur Erhu club in the neighborhood. Everyone in the club had died. My second grandfather ran a tofu workshop, and would happily make jellied bean curd for us children every time we barged in. The workshop died with him. 

Our next door neighbor, the greatest gossip around, died of breast cancer a few years ago. The mean guy that spoke ill of us behind our backs lost his wife to an incurable tumor. The man that took some of our land for his pigpen had a leg amputated after an accident, and eventually died of infection. 

These were not the easiest type of people, but the news of their death still saddens me. Sometimes, when I check on my mother through the camera, I hear funeral music, and my heart skips a beat: who is it this time? The fear that my acquaintance back home is dying off lingers. 

During our last video call, my mother told me that a new water station has been put in place, supplying low-cost filtered water to the villagers. The tap water system installed a few years ago is now history. So is the hand-pump well that was once a must-have in every household. 

When we were little, we all drank water freshly pumped out of the well. It was clear and sweet. No one ever raises any question on water quality. Then one day, the water suddenly became undrinkable. I blame the factory, the animal farms, and the garbage. Anyway, we started to fetch water from the hills. Later, the village laid pipes to deliver water from a supposed cleaner source, but you would be lucky to find water running one out of ten times. 

The water station is good news. So are the different-colored large garbage bins and regular visits of the collection truck (though the bins disappeared one after another and no one really sorts the garbage). Road lamps are erected and centralized gas pipes are newly built. There are rumors that the traditional cooking counters would be demolished as burning firewood is bad for the environment. My mother was disheartened to hear that as she likes to use firewood for specific meals. I assured her that it’s just rumors.

In many ways, the village is becoming better and better. But “my” village, the one I used to know is disappearing. My connections with it are breaking, and memories lost. 

Yes. I have many new connections and new memories are being created every day. But these gains cannot make up for what's lost.

But I believe this is the life we are all living, only in different versions.