清明：那从未抵达的故乡 | A Tomb-Sweeping Awakening

作者： 秦小杰

日期：2025年4月5日

Xiaojie Qin

April 5, 2025

清明节

一个我从来没有真正有过内心连接的节日， 几十年来，他只不过约等于一个小长假而已。而已不惑的我，在今年清明节第一次感受到这个节日的重要性，已经它对家庭、特别是一个中国传统大家庭的意义。

Tomb-Sweeping Day

A festival I never truly felt connected to in my heart. For decades, it was nothing more than a short holiday to me. Yet now, in my forties, I’ve come to understand its significance for the first time—its importance to family, especially to a traditional Chinese extended family. 

我是独生女，80年代的人，独生子女是一个常态。我身边的中国朋友基本上也都是独生子女。对于我来讲，更特殊的一点，我的童年里，几乎就只有爸妈这个概念，在很长的时间里，我并不知道这是特殊的。成长的过程中，我们一家人都住在绵阳，一个离大家庭所在地重庆很远的地方，因为80、90年代的四川，那个时候重庆虽然还都是四川的一部分，但很远，因为交通并不发达，回去一次算是一个长途跋涉。用‘回去’这个次，我感觉很牵强，我没有在重庆出生、生活，爸妈的老家也不是那里，爷爷奶奶也是随着西部大开发才从江南城市搬到了重庆。

I’m an only child, born in the 1980s, when single-child families were the norm. Most of my Chinese friends are also only children. But my situation was even more unique: my childhood revolved almost entirely around my parents, and for a long time, I didn’t realize this was unusual. Growing up, my family lived in Mianyang, far from our extended family in Chongqing. Back then, in the 80s and 90s, Chongqing was still part of Sichuan, but the distance felt immense due to underdeveloped transportation. Returning to visit was a major journey. Using the word "return" feels forced—I wasn’t born or raised in Chongqing, and my parents’ hometown wasn’t there either. My grandparents had moved to Chongqing during the Western Development Campaign.

在那遥远而模糊的记忆里，一年的春节，我们一家要去爷爷奶奶那里过年。我记得我们好像都不用从车站检票口过就可以找到捷径来到站台，那绿色的火车皮里，挤满了春运的人。我爸妈站在即将驶出车站的火车窗边，他们中一个往车上挤，一个用手托着我，把我从窗户里送到车里窗边陌生人手里，这样我就不会被耽误他们用力挤上这趟列车，也不会在拥挤中受伤，唯一的缺点就是，有些许可能把我弄丢吧。

In a distant, hazy memory, one Spring Festival, my family traveled to celebrate with them. Train stations back then were chaotic—I remember bypassing the ticket gates entirely, finding shortcuts to the platform. The green train cars were packed with people. My parents stood by the window of the departing train; one squeezed inside while the other lifted me through the window into the arms of a stranger. This way, I wouldn’t slow them down or get hurt in the crowd. The only risk? Maybe losing me. 

好像这样的场景，现在只能在印度的电影看到了。我也有一次在斯里兰卡旅行时，站在绿皮火车的车上，车门在行驶中都一直开着，我站在门口上，有时候会将半个身体吊在车外，一种似成相识的感觉。谁知道呢，记忆总会在每次提取的时候，被再次修改，也许离儿时的感受很远了，但我的大脑宁可相信我仅存的些许记忆的。

Scenes like that now only exist in Indian movies. Once, while traveling in Sri Lanka, I stood in the open doorway of a moving train, half-leaning outside—a strangely familiar feeling. Who knows? Memories warp each time we recall them. Maybe my childhood impressions are long gone, but my brain clings to the fragments I have left. 

几十年前，因为爸妈回趟家会如此劳神费力费钱，所以我几乎没有太多和大家庭相聚的记忆。因为不走亲戚，再加上爸妈也不承载传统的生活，作为一个土生土长的中国人，我的成长过程，没有太多中国传统文化的印记，似乎唯一的就是春节的时候，我要给爸妈磕头、然后他们给我红包。爸爸妈妈是普通的单位人员，过着简单和无限循环的的日子，我偶尔加入他们的活动，就是他们饭后散步了，至今，他们也会吃完饭要出去‘转路’，几十年如一日，雷打不动！所以，我不知道串亲戚的礼节，也不懂中国最深的‘关系’文化，也没有耳濡目染传统的待人接物传承。

Back then, visiting family was so exhausting and expensive that I barely have memories of reunions. We didn’t visit relatives much, and my parents didn’t uphold many traditions. Despite being Chinese, my upbringing lacked deep cultural roots—except for the New Year’s ritual of kowtowing to my parents for red envelopes. They were ordinary danwei workers, living simple, repetitive lives. My only occasional participation was joining their post-dinner walks, a habit they still maintain religiously decades later. So I never learned the etiquette of family visits, the intricacies of guanxi, or the unspoken rules of social conduct. 

这几十年，给外婆上坟的次数也就是两三次吧。外婆走的早，我在小学的时候，她就离开了，我还记得外婆的脸，她和妈妈很像。我很幸运，家里其他的长辈，外公，爷爷奶奶都活到了90岁上下。但可惜的是，因为不在一个城市，他们生前我们接触也很少，到他们离世我都感觉和他们很疏远。只是我的理智告诉我，我应该更伤感才对，因为他们是我的亲人。他们三人都是在近五年离开的，一个接一个走了，给我最大的冲击是，没有了那一辈，下一辈就是接班的了，对于一个中年没有结婚的我来说，无意这是一个让我心里拔凉的感受。

In all these years, I’ve visited my grandmother’s grave maybe two or three times. She passed away when I was in elementary school, but I still remember her face—she looked so much like my mom. I was lucky that my other elders—grandfather, grandparents—lived into their nineties. Yet, because we lived in different cities, I rarely saw them. Even in their final years, I felt distant. Rationally, I knew I should grieve more—they were family. But when they passed, one after another in the last five years, the real shock was realizing: “With their generation gone, ours is next.” For a single, ‘middle-aged’ woman like me, that’s a chilling thought. 

一年前，生活突然给了我一个连环杀，在一系列的不如意后，我感受到我的心境慢慢进入到低谷。于是，我提醒自己，该加量做我给来访（我是一名心理咨询师）的‘作业’了，感恩练习。为了能更好的坚持，我给好朋友发了消息，提议我们两睡觉前感恩。没想到，这一个约定，我们一直坚持到现在。也是因为这个例行，我发现了一个有趣的现象。

A year ago, life hit me with a series of blows. As my mood sank, I reminded myself to double down on the "homework" I assign my therapy clients: gratitude practice. To stay accountable, I texted a close friend, suggesting we share nightly gratitude lists. Unexpectedly, we’ve kept it up ever since. And through this ritual, I noticed something fascinating.

我的闺蜜，一个我认识了十几年的前同事，还是本家姓。每天晚上我们都会给对方发消息，总结一天的经历，感恩生活。她经常在总结中，都会提到她的家人，要嘛就是要回家看母亲了，要嘛就是她叔叔、堂姐、要嘛就是她弟弟。我才意识到，原来有人跟自己大家庭的连接是可以这么多的。她说，毕竟堂姐跟他们一起住了三年。闺蜜和家人有很深的情绪连接，会因为亲戚生病看病担忧，会因为弟弟工作不顺操心，会在妈妈陪着的时候心里踏实。我的表弟（或者叫堂弟？是的，我对一个大家族里各个人的辈分称呼也是稀里糊涂的），曾在北京住过半年一年的，我们都没见面过。唯一大家近年聚起来的时候，就是亲人过世的时候了，我也感觉很别扭，不知道如何待人接物，压力山大。闺蜜和家人的距离以及关系，让我体验到，原来血脉相连可以是这样的心心相惜，这让牵肠挂肚的焦虑，居然让我有丝许羡慕，在她的潜移默化中，我似乎对大家庭有了一丝好奇之心和向往。

My friend—a former colleague of over a decade, who even shares my surname—often mentions family in her reflections: visiting her mom, checking on her uncle, chatting with her cousin or younger brother. It dawned on me: Some people actually have this much connection with their extended family. She once lived with her cousin for three years. Her bonds run deep—she worries when relatives fall ill, stresses over her brother’s job struggles, and feels comforted just having her mom around. Meanwhile, my cousin (biaodi, or is it tangdi? I’ve never grasped the proper kinship terms) lived in Beijing for nearly a year, and we never met. The only times we’ve gathered in recent years were funerals, where I felt awkward, socially clueless, and overwhelmed. My bestie’s closeness to family made me realize: Blood ties can actually mean something. The way she frets over them, the warmth they share—it’s enviable, in a way. Slowly, her influence stirred a curiosity in me, even a longing for that kind of connection. 

最近的一次聚会，是在外公的灵堂，那应该是2021年了。我坐在灵堂里，看着熟悉又陌生的亲人们，我静静的呆在那里。妈妈说，不要哭，送外公走不能哭的。一大会儿后，念佛团来了，他们围着外公一直走，记不得有多长时间了，妈妈一下带着欣慰的笑容走到我面前，说“外公被阿弥陀福接走了”，那一刻我妈妈心里似乎放心了下来。外公后来去到火葬的地方，我已经没有了外公进火葬场的画面了，也没有其他任何的记忆了，只是知道我在那里。后来，一家人一起去重庆的一个餐厅吃了饭，餐厅里七大姨八大姑都在，还有好些远房的我从未见过的亲戚。因为我远在北京居住，很少跟大家接触，这一切很陌生，但我们都讲四川话，乡音让这个气氛添加了莫名的幸福，也许这就是融洽血缘关系自带的吧。

The last reunion was at my grandfather’s funeral in 2021. Sitting in the mourning hall, surrounded by vaguely familiar relatives, I stayed quiet. My mom told me not to cry—it was forbidden when sending off the deceased. Later, a Buddhist chanting group arrived, circling his coffin for what felt like hours. At one point, my mom approached me, relieved, and said, “Grandpa has been taken by Amitabha Buddha.” When his body was cremated, I have no memory of the moment—just that I was there. Afterward, the extended family ate at a Chongqing restaurant, packed with aunts, uncles, and distant cousins I’d never met. As a Beijing transplant, it all felt foreign. But we all spoke Sichuan dialect, and the shared accent wrapped everything in an unspoken warmth—maybe that’s the natural ease of blood ties. 

今年的清明节，爸爸妈妈去了重庆，妈妈那一辈姐弟一共五个，外公外婆的孩子们，都到齐了，去给我的祖父母和外祖父母上坟，一行人从重庆开车去到了祖父母曾经住过的房子，有一个上百年的房子，如今无人居住，已经破烂不堪，但那颗树还在，妈妈说以前外祖父，外公都在这颗树这里玩耍，度过了很多岁月，我看着那颗树，一种莫名的感动，生命的传承吧，也许。他们还去看了祖父母的房子，还在，也有人住。

This Tomb-Sweeping Day, my parents went to Chongqing. All five siblings from my mom’s side gathered to sweep the graves of our grandparents and great-grandparents. They drove to the century-old family home, now crumbling and abandoned, but the tree still stood—the same one my grandfather and great-grandfather once played under. Seeing it in my mom’s video moved me inexplicably. The continuity of life, perhaps. They also visited the old house, still standing, still inhabited. 

我在微信上，看到妈妈发来的这些视频，给她打了视频通话，我特别希望那一刻自己也在那里，和这么多亲人在一起，尽管我不知道要说什么，也不知道什么是最好的礼节，但我就想在那里，听着四川话，听他们谈祖辈的故事。妈妈把镜头对向坟头的时候，我说我想叩拜一下，我甚至都不知道是外祖父母还是祖父母，但我知道他们是我从未见过的亲人，应该没见过吧，清明节其他要做的我不知道，但这个是我可以做的，表达对他们的感激，一辈一辈的言传身教。

Watching these clips on WeChat, I video-called my mom. For the first time, I wished I were there—surrounded by family, even if I didn’t know what to say or how to act. I just wanted to stand there, listening to Sichuan dialect, hearing stories of ancestors. When my mom pointed the camera at the graves, I said I wanted to bow. I didn’t even know if they were my maternal or paternal grandparents—I’d likely never met them. But I knew they were family, and this was something I could do: express gratitude for the generations before me. 

我妈妈家有很重的人情味，外公外婆的几个孩子，都很孝顺，大家相处的其乐融融，这并非易事。他们一定很爱他们的孩子，外公外婆也肯定很爱我的妈妈，妈妈又把这份爱，在每一句话、每一个动作和每一个思念里传给了我，所以我很幸福的。

My mom’s family carries deep warmth. Her siblings are all filial, harmonious—no small feat. They must have loved their children deeply. My grandparents surely loved my mom, and she passed that love to me in every word, gesture, and memory. So I’ve been lucky. 

明年的清明节，我也想让姨们儿再开车带我们一起去，下次，我想脚踏土地的站在那经历了百年变化的土地上，去感受风日孕育的这个家，我从没去过，却从那里来的这个家。

Next Tomb-Sweeping Day, I want my aunts to take us back. Next time, I want to stand on that land, weathered by a hundred years of change, and feel the wind and sun that nurtured this family—a family I’ve never known, yet come from all the same.

Photos from Xiaojie

中文写作，英文由Deepseek翻译

Written in Chinese by the author, and translated by Deepseek