China Red is the brilliant mark on a passport, the light that never goes out along the road home. Alone, I clutched his cold ashes and listened to explosions rumbling in the distance. The pandemic, suspended flights, visas, air travel, the transfer of remains, death certificates… Every step lay across thorns and frost. Yet I never let go, because behind me lay the call of my homeland, unopened Spring Festival couplets, and the lamp that stayed lit all night by my mother’s window. At last, the coffin was draped in the bright red national flag, like a boat returning to anchor in the harbor of home. The mountains and rivers were silent, yet in their fiercest red, they welcomed him home. That red is bloodline, promise, a root that cannot be severed even through the smoke of war.
China Red is no mere symbol. It is a compass deep in the blood. It promises no smooth road, but always points the way back home. When the national emblem shone above the cabin door, I suddenly understood: coming home is not a shift in geographical coordinates, but the moment the soul is tenderly embraced by the lines of its homeland. Even if mountains and seas are overturned, a streak of red will stubbornly leave a light on for you in the crack of the door.
