Hang Money

On the day my grandfather died, the old locust tree was covered with red coins. Ninety-nine, there is no wind, they move by themselves. He was a paper maker during his lifetime and had been making paper figures all his life. He never painted eyes. He said that as soon as the eyes were drawn on that thing, he wanted to come down and walk around at night. I thought he was joking. Until the night before the funeral, the paper man hugged my wrist during the wake. Until the bowl of paste exploded on the table, and a line of blood words appeared on the wall: July 17, open the door. Until a blackbird landed on the treetop and called me "grandson". Only then did I realize that my grandfather had borrowed my nineteen years of life to give me a pair of eyes that could see ghosts. Now, he wants me to pay it back.