Two decades after her family moved back to Wuhan, Aunt Dongsheng made a special trip to Fularki. My grandfather had died by then, but my little uncle Lusheng was still alive, and in his sober, wistful moments, he would beg Aunt Dongsheng: “Could you go bring Mom home from the northeast?”
It was a very long journey by train, so Aunt Dongsheng got off in Beijing to take a break. Before getting back on the train, she bought a roll of film at a store near the train station. But when she finally arrived in Fularki, she was informed that the cemetery was gone. It had been dismantled, steam-rolled, and transformed into a new airport. Development. Fularki was expanding, becoming more populous, more prosperous. Grandma’s grave was flattened by the marching steps of progress. The airport was a big government project and, presumably, those who saw the announcement posted in the local newspaper had their familial tombs removed in time. But no one had notified my uncles, or my aunts, or my mother.
