For a few days in autumn every year, we remember our ancestors and console their wandering ghosts, since they are far removed from the joyful days of their lives. Of course, to do so we must assume such spirits exist in the first place. It is undeniably a beautiful custom.
          If there is any meaning in this tradition, I think it comes from what the ancient sages thoughtfully intended. They wanted us to reflect on the forlornness of death amidst the pleasures of daily life, leading us to become aware of the meaning of life at a deeper level. 
          On Chuseok¹ of this year, I visited my uncle’s grave. I was unable to go to his grave last Hansik² because of rain, and also because I was lazy. I swore to myself that I would make a visit this Chuseok. I had also been thinking about what he was like when he was alive. His death had come suddenly, and I had always wanted to pay my respects to him. My heart weighed heavily with these thoughts when I took the bus to Miari Ridge, where he is buried.
          Near the cemetery, there is a white mountain, and a delicate mountain filled with wailing cries. Grass was shuddering in the desolate autumn wind when I arrived. I found that the number of the cemetery’s residents had grown exponentially in the last five years since my uncle’s burial. I was grieved by so many deaths. Of course, the rate of infant births most likely exceeded the rate of deaths in the last five years. Still, I could not help but feel the tragedy of it all—that people are replaced every day in this world.
          I looked at my uncle’s grave. Grasses on its mound had gone through at least five cycles of deaths and rebirths. It looked rough, and my heart ached. I could see some cracks on the stone table in front of his grave, and the cracks had been patched up with cement. A tombstone his friends had paid for was next to the stone table, and it was leaning slightly on its side.
          Sitting on dirt beside his grave, I reminisced about my uncle’s severe, rough countenance. I thought about the day he passed, and the day of the funeral, when I wore my funeral clothes. These memories from five years ago passed through me.
          I read what was written on his tombstone, which said:

          He was fair and upright, and faithful and loyal to his friends.
          We swore to share all our sorrows and joys together, but he 
          has passed on in the middle of his life. We can’t hide our grief. 
          Here in this mountain valley, let this stone stand for our faith. 

          It was written by Mr. K, my uncle’s old friend, and I had designed its calligraphic font, which was then chiseled into stone. No wines or fruits could be found on the stone table beside the tombstone. My sorrow deepened. 
          It was then that some people came to visit another grave near my uncle’s. There were four of them. An old lady, a young man and a young woman, and a child around 10 years old in his elementary school uniform. The young man was dressed in a western-style suit, and the young woman wore heels. The old lady opened a bundle she was carrying and produced wines and fruits from it. She made an impromptu memorial ceremony table with them. The four of them each kindled an incense, and poured a glass of wine for the dead, and bowed to the grave.  
          The young couple made their ritual bows while wearing western clothes, and it was a sorry sight. The little elementary school student in his school uniform bowing like his parents overwhelmed me with pity. 
          The old lady wailed. She wailed, lying prostrate on the ground, refusing to get up. The young couple burned their incense several times without saying a word, poured the wine,  bowed, and left the old lady alone for a bit, taking the child with them.
          They moved away from the old lady and pointed to Pungmang Mountain, which stood across from the cemetery, and conversed amongst themselves. They finally came back and tried to lift the wailing lady, but the lady refused to get up. I assume she was their mother.
          Then, a beggar who lived at the foot of Pungmang Mountain came to the cemetery. He came and begged for the leftovers before the ceremony was even over.  He demanded arrogantly, as if the food had always been his. The couple yelled at him and refused to give him anything. They were still trying to lift their mother.
          While I was watching all this happen, another old lady, holding hands with a little boy who could be her grandson, was walking down from one of the upper hills of the cemetery. As she came down, she took a close look at each signpost by the graves. This place had probably changed so much since last year, and it seemed like she had forgotten where her husband was buried.
          This new old lady and her boy eventually passed me by, and then turned around to go up another hill.  They never found the place they were looking for.
          The arrogant beggar, apparently realizing the uselessness of his quarrel, went to look for some other victim of his abuse. 
          The beggar went east, and the old widow and her boy went west—
          The sun was past noon. I had no choice but to return to the towns and streets of the living. I paced down that hill where cosmos flowers were blooming. I worried about the widow and the boy and wondered if they had found her husband’s grave. When I got to the bus stop, I saw a big fight happening inside a street corner pub. The combatants were all dressed in funeral clothes.