難忘第一次的訣別

下了飛機，我和大哥都沒説話，衹和來接機的弟弟相互擁抱，未語淚成行。默默地上了車，望著窗外高速公路上咻咻而過的車群，那天清晨的一幕又呈現腦海。

前一晚弟妹已經緊急來電，爸爸住進加護病房，情況萬分緊急，他們要我找出上次回臺問好的喪事聯絡電話，整個晚上電話來來去去，弟弟說醫生要他簽名，最後關頭是否不要再作電擊，免得骨頭破碎身體不全，他聽從醫生的建議，但還是希望得到六個小孩的一致同意，我們都心碎的同意了！

清晨九點多，我正在公司洗手間，手機響起，傳來弟弟急促的聲音 “三姐，爸爸要走了，你跟他再見吧”，我顫抖得握住手機，對著話筒大喊：”爸！爸！你好走！！爸！爸！我們都愛你！爸！爸！爸。。。。“我嘶聲力竭得叫著爸爸，怕他聽不見我最後的道別，弟弟在電話那端說：“三姐，好了，爸爸要走了，我要挂電話了”， 我哭著喊“不要！不要！不要挂電話！不要！不要！爸！爸！“，電話那端挂了， 我嚎啕大哭。

哭聲中，我聽到有人敲我的門“Are you OK ? ”, 我哭著說 “我還好，我爸爸去世了， 對不起，我剛剛在跟他道別”，她似乎説了什麽，走出去了。等我回到辦公桌，一群人已經在那兒等我，每個人輪流給我一個擁抱，我霎時又淚成河，老闆叫我回家休息，但爲了明天馬上得回臺灣兩星期，我撐著處理公事一直到下班。後來我問同事她怎麽知道，她說我那天的哭喊聲，厠所外幾里都聽得到。

回到臺灣的第二天，弟弟帶我去看爸。我一向最怕進殯儀館，以前家住木柵，每次坐車經過辛亥隧道，我總把頭轉向一邊，不敢去看那一排排令人心情灰暗的白色花圈。

小時住中部，三不五時就會看到路旁又搭起帳篷，夜晚梵文念經的木魚聲在寒冬的街頭顯得特別陰森，有時是那個老坐在門口納涼的隔壁阿公去世，有時是另個在市場賣菜的歐巴桑走了，當那白色帳篷搭起，附近小孩不再到他們家找人玩，“去去去，小孩來這兒作什麽？”大人一個個都沒心情跟我們周旋，鄰家的姐姐好幾個星期胸前都戴白花，進進出出的人頭上多戴麻紗罩頭。

每個晚上，聽到和尚尼姑敲木魚念經的聲音，讓我整個心都涼起來，仿佛陰間就在附近，我把頭埋進棉被裏，兩隻手捂住耳朵，在一種恐怖的情緒下沉沉睡去。早上上學，不得已得經過這些帳篷花圈， 我按住書包，飛快的奔跑，直到木魚聲遠去。

祖母，舅舅去世的時候，墓地回來照例是宴請所有幫忙者和喪家，我對著滿桌菜餚衹覺得肚子很不舒服，隱隱作嘔，那些食物仿佛都沾上了不潔的印記，我想離這些遠遠的，不願去碰觸任何連結死亡的東西。

曾經不解爲什麽有人會在殯儀館做事，怎麽有人會想去幫死人化妝？怎麽有人會去賣棺木？ 這些人是走投無路才會出此下策吧？ 這些人回家后怎麽過正常人的生活？對於我，那是不可思議的一種職業。直到經歷父親的去世，我才知道這些人是多麽令人感激。

生平第一次走進停尸間，諾大的房間像學校的大禮堂，一排排的鐵櫃像極銀行的保險箱。每次去銀行保險箱取物，銀行人員插入我和他各一把鑰匙，便抽出長方形的塑膠盒給我，此刻那個長形盒子抽出來的是父親，盒子成了父親這幾天的住所。我握住父親冰冷的手哭喊，直到工作人員和弟弟勸我離去。

臨走，我環顧四周，前後左右都是一個個上面標著姓名的鐵櫃子，那裏面是否也是和父親一樣年紀的叔叔伯伯姑姑阿姨們？他們是否會跟爸爸打招呼作伴？生平第一次，我發現自己不但不害怕殯儀館，不害怕停尸間，而且我對其它數十個盒子充滿感恩，感謝他們這幾天在這兒陪伴父親，讓他在冰冷的凍庫内不至於太寂寞。還好有他們同樣躺在這兒，也許父親可以和他們聊天解悶，也許他們會給父親這老弟一些前人的經驗談？！

第三天是幫父親化妝穿戴衣物的日子，他們問我們家屬要不要去看，我和媽媽去了。生平第一次看到所謂的穿壽衣，以前的我覺得這種職業是多麽低層，而此刻，我深深感激他們，感激有人願意來作這些事，爸爸一向注重儀容，有他們幫父親穿戴的端莊鄭重，相信這是爸爸願意看到的。

第四天，我們去看喪禮的會場佈置，短短一星期，我出入殯儀館五六次，在辛亥路上來回好幾趟。以前這是個令我厭惡的地方，此刻卻變成最令我感到溫馨的所在，我甚至想整天待在那兒，因爲在這兒，我還能跟父親多相處他留在世界上最後的幾天時光。對每一位幫助我們處理事情的人員，我充滿感恩，對這些儀式完全陌生的我們，沒有他們的指引，真不知該怎麽作才是。

正式的告別式結束后，我們護送父親遺體到火葬間，隨後在前廳有牧師帶領的另一個衹有親近家屬才參加的儀式，一小時后，葬場人員捧來父親的骨灰，要家人撿起幾根未燒盡的骨頭象徵性的放進骨灰盒，父親的身體正式從這世界上消失，我凝視著那些灰燼，感覺父親的靈魂已飛到天上與上帝同在。

第一次在公司失態痛哭

第一次進停尸間

第一次看穿壽衣

第一次撿起骨灰

第一次和最愛的親人訣別

第一次，辛亥路對我，不再是個陰森可怕的所在。

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If you could hold on to just one memory from your life forever, what would that be? - The First Farewell- 

After getting off the plane, my eldest brother and I said nothing. We simply embraced our younger brother who had come to pick us up, tears streaming down our faces before a single word was spoken. Silently, we got into the car. As I gazed out at the cars speeding past on the freeway, the scene from that early morning came rushing back into my mind.

The night before, my younger siblings had called in urgency—Father had been admitted to the intensive care unit, and his condition was critical. They asked me to find the contact number for the funeral services we had used the last time we returned to Taiwan. Calls went back and forth all night. My brother said the doctor needed him to sign a consent form—whether, at the final moment, to forgo electric shocks that might shatter bones and leave the body broken. He followed the doctor’s advice, but still hoped to have the unanimous agreement of all six children. With broken hearts, we all agreed.

A little after nine the next morning, I was in the restroom at work when my phone rang. My brother’s hurried voice came through: “Third sister, Dad is about to go. Say goodbye to him.” Trembling, I clutched the phone and cried out into it, “Dad! Dad! It’s okay for you to go! Dad! Dad! We all love you! Dad! Dad! Dad…” I shouted with all my strength, afraid he wouldn’t hear my final farewell. My brother said from the other end, “Third sister, that’s enough. Dad is leaving. I have to hang up.” I cried out, “No! No! Don’t hang up! Don’t! Don’t! Dad! Dad!” The line went dead. I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.

Amid my cries, I heard someone knock on the door. “Are you OK?” I answered through tears, “I’m okay… my father just passed away. I’m sorry, I was saying goodbye to him.” She said something softly and left. When I returned to my desk, a group of colleagues was already waiting for me. One by one, they each gave me a hug. My tears surged again like a river. My boss told me to go home and rest, but knowing I would be flying back to Taiwan the next day for two weeks, I forced myself to stay and finish my work until the end of the day. Later, I asked a colleague how she knew. She said my cries that day could be heard far beyond the restroom.

The second day after returning to Taiwan, my brother took me to see Father. I had always been afraid of funeral homes. When we used to live in Muzha, every time we passed Xinhai Tunnel, I would turn my head away, unable to bear looking at the rows of white funeral wreaths that cast such a somber mood.

When I was a child in central Taiwan, it was not uncommon to see mourning tents set up along the roadside. At night, the hollow sound of wooden fish drums and chanting in the cold winter air felt especially eerie. Sometimes it was the elderly man who used to sit outside fanning himself; sometimes it was the woman from the market who sold vegetables. Once the white tents were up, neighborhood children would no longer go to their homes to play. “Go, go, what are children doing here?” the adults would say, with no patience to entertain us. The older sisters in the neighborhood wore white flowers pinned to their chests for weeks, and those coming and going often wore coarse mourning cloth over their heads.

Every night, the sound of monks and nuns chanting with the wooden fish made my whole body turn cold, as if the underworld were close by. I would bury my head under the blankets, cover my ears, and fall into a troubled sleep. In the morning, on my way to school, I had no choice but to pass by those tents and wreaths. Clutching my schoolbag, I would run as fast as I could until the sound of chanting faded away.

When my grandmother and uncle passed away, it was customary to host a banquet afterward to thank those who had helped. But sitting before a table full of food, I felt nothing but discomfort, a faint nausea. The food seemed tainted, as if marked by death. I wanted to stay far away, unwilling to touch anything connected to it.

I used to wonder how anyone could work in a funeral home—how someone could choose to prepare the dead, or sell coffins. I thought perhaps they had no other choice. How could they return home and live normal lives? To me, it was an incomprehensible profession. Only after experiencing my father’s death did I realize how deeply grateful I was for these people.

For the first time in my life, I entered a morgue. The vast room resembled a school auditorium, with rows of metal compartments like safety deposit boxes in a bank. Every time I went to a bank vault, a staff member would insert both our keys and pull out a rectangular box. Now, the box being pulled out held my father—it had become his resting place these past few days. I held his cold hand and cried out until the staff and my brother gently urged me to leave.

As I turned to go, I looked around. All around me were compartments labeled with names. Were they people like my father—uncles and aunts of similar age? Were they keeping him company, greeting him, becoming his companions? For the first time in my life, I realized I was no longer afraid of funeral homes or morgues. Instead, I felt gratitude toward those dozens of neighboring compartments—for accompanying my father these past days, so he would not feel too lonely in the cold chamber. Perhaps they could chat with him, keep him company, even share their own stories of what lay beyond.

On the third day, we were asked whether we wished to witness the dressing and preparation of Father’s body. My mother and I went. It was my first time seeing what is called burial clothing. In the past, I had looked down on such work. But at that moment, I felt only deep gratitude—gratitude that someone was willing to do this. My father had always cared about his appearance; seeing him dressed with such dignity and care, I believed this was something he would have wanted.

On the fourth day, we went to see the funeral hall arrangements. In just one week, I had entered and left the funeral home five or six times, traveling back and forth along Xinhai Road. Once a place I had detested, it had now become a place of warmth and comfort. I even wished to stay there all day, because it was where I could still spend time with my father in his final days in this world. I felt immense gratitude toward everyone who helped us through the process. We were completely unfamiliar with these rituals; without their guidance, we would not have known what to do.

After the formal farewell ceremony, we escorted Father’s body to the crematorium. In the front hall, a pastor led a private service for close family members. An hour later, the staff brought out Father’s ashes and asked us to pick up a few remaining bone fragments and place them into the urn as a symbolic act. My father’s body had now completely disappeared from this world. As I gazed at the ashes, I felt that his soul had already risen to heaven, to be with God.

The first time I broke down crying at work

The first time I entered a morgue

The first time I saw burial clothing

The first time I picked up ashes

The first time I said goodbye to the one I loved most

For the first time, Xinhai Road was no longer a place of fear and darkness for me.