Yesterday we went to visit my grandfather’s grave. We had to convince fruit & veggie sellers to move their carts aside so we could gain access to the cemetery’s gate. Once inside, we couldn’t locate our grandfather’s grave- large dead leaves and weeds covered most of the graves, including his. His tombstone was caked in dust and dirt, and we used water and shrubs to scrub it clean (or as clean as it could be). It struck me as bittersweet- tending to a grave of a man who is no longer there. Perhaps it was more for us than for him. We lit Tibetan incense and showered his grave with colourful flowers and water from a tap nearby. Later that evening, a thunderstorm shook our town, cutting out power and spitting heavy rain. I thought of my grandfather’s grave, and how drenched the flowers must be, how the incense must’ve been snuffed out by rain. Impermanence.