It's Not Superstition—I Just Want to "Give Pocket Money" to My Loved Ones in Heaven Again
03 Dec 2025
Last week, while sorting through my mother's camphorwood chest, my fingertips brushed a yellowed note. The handwriting had faded with time, but I could still make out the repeatedly revised sentence: "On the third day of the third lunar month, burn some joss paper for Dad— the kind printed with pine cranes." The edges of the note were frayed, clearly flipped through countless times by my mother. I squatted on the floor, clutching the note and crying—my mother had been gone for two years, and this unfulfilled wish hid her twenty-year-long longing for my grandfather, and also pierced my regret of missing Qingming tomb-sweeping after wandering abroad for ten years.
My first attempt at worship in New York was during the first Qingming after my mother passed away. I visited three shops in Chinatown, but the joss paper I bought was either crudely made or printed with unfamiliar patterns. When I set up a temporary fireproof board on the balcony and lit it, the thick smoke choked me to tears. Watching the twisted ash, I suddenly felt extremely wronged: even "giving pocket money" to my mother, I did it so shabbily. It wasn't until a friend recommended this cross-border joss paper set that I froze for a long time when unpacking the express delivery—inside was a pack of joss paper printed with pine crane patterns, exactly what my mother had rambled about on the note.
That evening, I placed my mother's old photo on the balcony, with her favorite jasmine tea beside it, and lit the first pine crane-patterned joss paper. The pale golden flame slowly licked the paper, without pungent smoke, only a faint bamboo fragrance wafting up. The firelight reflected on my mother's smiling face in the photo, and for a moment, I seemed to return to my childhood, watching her burn paper for my grandfather and always saying: "Dad, don't be frugal—buy whatever you want." I imitated my mother's tone and whispered: "Mom, I'm giving you pocket money. Go and wander around with Grandpa well." As the words fell, the wind swept the ash gently into the sky, and the tightness in my heart that had lingered for a long time suddenly dissipated.
People always ask: in this day and age, do you still believe in burning paper? But only those who have truly cared for someone understand—what we burn is never money, but the "obsession" hidden in our hearts: the obsession to want our loved ones to live in peace in another world, the obsession to still want to do something for them, the obsession to refuse to accept the fact that "we can no longer spend money for them". Just as Western children place a cookie for their deceased loved ones on Christmas Eve, hoping they will come back to taste it; just as Northern Europeans light candles on the winter solstice to illuminate the way home for the deceased, the essence of burning joss paper for Easterners is nothing but a simple way to continue that longing that transcends life and death.
A customer message received in the background made my eyes red. A boy named Ajie said that his grandfather's favorite thing in life was to play mahjong with old friends, and when he lost, he would always complain: "My pocket is empty." During Qingming, he bought the "Underworld Mahjong Room Set", which included joss paper printed with mahjong patterns, a mini wooden table model, and a silk banner with "Ever-Victorious General" written on it. "When I lit the joss paper, I seemed to hear Grandpa's laughter after winning a game, just like when I watched him play mahjong as a child." Ajie's words revealed the secret in everyone's heart: those seemingly "superstitious" rituals were never for seeking blessings, but just wanting to be a "caring child" for loved ones again, and to hand them "pocket money" once more.
Last Qingming, I put my mother's note and the ash of the pine crane-patterned joss paper into a small box, with a photo of my daughter and me beside it. My daughter pointed at the note in the box and asked: "Did Grandma miss Great-Grandpa?" I nodded, and she said seriously: "Then next time we'll 'give money' to Grandma and Great-Grandpa together. I'll draw one with a princess pattern for Grandma to buy a beautiful dress." I hugged my daughter and looked out the window. The spring breeze carried the fragrance of cherry blossoms from Central Park in New York. Suddenly, I understood: the so-called inheritance is to quietly hide this longing in the hearts of the next generation; the so-called worship is to want to say to loved ones "don't worry about having no money" even across mountains, seas, life and death.
In this cross-border joss paper set, what I cherish most is not the fire-resistant tray or the multilingual manual, but the small blank area left on each piece of joss paper. I always write some trivial words on it: "Mom, the jasmine is blooming well this year" "Bring a pack of the cigarettes Grandpa loved". When the flame rises, those words will slowly melt into the fire, and I always think that in this way, my loved ones in heaven can receive both my longing and the "pocket money". After all, this sincere wish to make them live well has never been bounded by national borders, and has never been superstition.
Interactive Topic: What "whispers" do you write when burning spirit money for loved ones? "Don’t skimp," or "I’m fine, don’t worry"? Share below
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