一
Aunty Chen died on a Tuesday.
She was ninety-four. She had been ready for years. Her bags were packed—metaphorically speaking. Her instructions were written. Her family knew what to do.
They had known for thirty years.
Because Aunty Chen had been planning her funeral since she was sixty-four. She talked about it at every family gathering. At New Year's: "When I die, don't forget the yellow flowers." At Qingming: "Make sure the music is cheerful, not sad." At weddings: "This is nice, but my funeral will be nicer."
Her children laughed. "Mama, you're not dying anytime soon."
"You don't know that. And when I do, I want it done right."
二
The instructions were in a red envelope, tucked behind the family altar.
Her daughter, Ling, opened it the day after she died. Inside, three pages of careful handwriting, updated every year for three decades.
Funeral Instructions for Aunty Chen
1. No black clothes. Everyone wears red. This is a celebration, not a mourning.
2. Yellow flowers only. They were my favorite. Your father knew.
3. Music: the old songs, the ones from my village. Not the sad ones. The ones we danced to.
4. Food: dumplings. Lots of dumplings. My recipe is in the box.
5. Speaking: no long speeches. If you have to speak, keep it short. Make me laugh.
6. Burning: burn my favorite things. Not everything—some of you might want them. But burn the things I loved. I'll need them where I'm going.
7. At the end, everyone eats. Eat until you're full. Eat until you're happy. That's how you remember me.
三
The family read the instructions together.
Ling laughed through her tears. "She really thought of everything."
Her brother nodded. "Thirty years of planning. She must have updated this every year."
"How do you know?"
"Look at the dates. At the bottom."
Ling looked. There they were—1994, 1995, 1996, all the way to 2024. Thirty years of dates. Thirty years of being ready.
"She wanted to make sure we didn't mess it up," Ling said.
"She wanted to make sure we were okay."
四
They followed the instructions exactly.
Red clothes for everyone. Ling went out and bought red shirts for the whole family. Her brother complained—red wasn't his color—but he wore it anyway.
Yellow flowers filled the room. Chrysanthemums, mostly, but also some from the garden, whatever was blooming. The room looked like spring.
The old songs played from a speaker. Not sad songs—dance songs, village songs, songs Aunty Chen had sung as a girl. Some of the older relatives started moving to the music, almost dancing.
"She would love this," Ling said.
"She does love this," her brother corrected. "She's watching."
五
People came from everywhere.
Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. Neighbors from the old building, now scattered across the city. Friends she'd made over ninety-four years. Even the vegetable seller from the market, the one she'd bought from every morning for decades.
They all wore red. They all brought yellow flowers. They all had stories.
The vegetable seller spoke first. He was young—maybe thirty—but his eyes were wet.
"Aunty Chen," he said, "you bought from me every morning for fifteen years. You always asked about my mother. You always brought her little gifts. I don't know if you knew—she was sick for a long time. Those gifts kept her going. You kept her going."
He placed a yellow flower on the altar.
"Thank you. From both of us."
六
A neighbor spoke next.
"I lived next door to Aunty Chen for forty years. When my husband died, she was the first one at my door. With soup. With tea. With silence—she just sat with me while I cried. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to."
She wiped her eyes.
"That's who she was. Soup and silence. That's how she loved."
七
Ling's brother spoke.
"My mother planned this funeral for thirty years," he said. "Thirty years. She updated her instructions every single year. New songs. New flowers. New jokes."
He held up the pages.
"The last update was two weeks ago. She added: 'Make sure they laugh. If no one laughs, I'll come back and haunt you.'"
The room laughed. Just like she wanted.
八
Then they burned her things.
Not everything—she had left instructions for that too. Her favorite jacket. Her old shoes. A stack of letters she'd saved. A photograph of her and her husband on their wedding day.
The smoke rose through a small window, curling into the sky.
"She's got them now," Ling whispered. "She's wearing her jacket. She's reading her letters. She's with Dad."
The smoke curled higher, as if agreeing.
九
Then they ate.
Dumplings. Hundreds of them. Made by the whole family the night before, following her recipe. Pork and cabbage. Chive and egg. A few with coins inside, for luck.
They ate until they were full. They ate until they were happy. They told stories while they ate, laughing with their mouths full.
"She would hate this," Ling said, watching someone talk with food in their mouth.
"She would love it," her brother replied. "She'd be right in the middle, doing the same thing."
十
At the end of the day, Ling stood alone by the altar.
The yellow flowers were wilting. The incense had burned to ash. The music had stopped.
"Goodbye, Mama," she whispered. "You did it right. You planned everything. You made sure we were okay."
She touched the photograph on the altar—her mother, young and laughing, at some long-ago wedding.
"I hope you're dancing. I hope the music is good. I hope you found Dad."
The photograph smiled back, silent.
十一
On the way out, she noticed something.
A small envelope, tucked behind the altar. Not the red one—a white one. New.
She opened it.
To my daughter,
If you're reading this, the funeral went well. You followed the instructions. You wore red. You played my songs. You ate too many dumplings.
Now I need you to do one more thing.
Live. Really live. Not for me—for yourself. I had ninety-four years. I used every one. Now it's your turn.
Don't wait thirty years to plan your funeral. Plan your life instead.
I love you. I'll be watching.
Mama
十二
Ling read the letter three times.
Then she folded it carefully and put it in her pocket.
"Okay, Mama," she whispered. "I will."
十三
The next day, she did something she'd been putting off for years.
She quit her job. The one she hated, the one she stayed in because it was safe. She called her brother.
"I'm quitting," she said.
"Good. Mama would be proud."
Then she called a friend about a business idea. The one they'd talked about for years but never started.
"Let's do it," she said. "Let's stop waiting."
十四
Years passed.
Ling's business thrived. She traveled. She loved. She lived.
Every year, on the anniversary of her mother's death, she did something special. Not a funeral—a celebration. She wore red. She played old songs. She ate dumplings.
And she told her mother's story. To anyone who would listen. To her children, her grandchildren, her friends.
"A woman who planned her funeral for thirty years," she'd say. "A woman who wanted us to laugh, not cry. A woman who taught me how to live by showing me how to die."
十五
On her own deathbed, at eighty-nine, Ling held her daughter's hand.
"The instructions," she whispered. "They're in the red envelope. Behind the altar."
Her daughter smiled through tears. "You planned your funeral too?"
"For thirty years. Just like Mama."
"What do they say?"
Ling smiled.
"You'll find out. When the time comes. But first—live. Really live. That's all."
十六
At Ling's funeral, everyone wore red.
Yellow flowers filled the room. Old songs played. Dumplings were eaten.
And her daughter stood at the altar and read from the instructions.
"She wanted you to laugh," she said. "She wanted you to eat too much. She wanted you to remember her with joy, not sadness."
She held up the final page.
"And she wanted me to tell you: 'I had eighty-nine years. I used every one. Now it's your turn.'"
十七
The smoke rose from the burning offerings.
Two women now. Mother and daughter. Watching from somewhere, together.
And somewhere, Aunty Chen was dancing.