The Year's End

Night falls. Carrying things into the house, restocking what is “out of stock”: couplets, firecrackers, fruit, paste, chicken feet, pots and bowls and pans…

The relatives have all come back. In the air you can smell cow dung, chicken droppings, and gunpowder mixed together.

My parents bustle all year long, as if only for these few days. A humble and great dream.

To be warmly dressed and well fed was the first goal of that era. Then the house had to be tidied spotless, because people would be coming, and you had to give them a good feeling.

I wake late in the morning. The television is showing The Heaven Sword and Dragon Saber. Curled up under the quilt, listening to the cold wind howl outside, my heart is quiet — quiet, so quiet. And what I think about is all very near, very near: what to eat, it’s so cold, when will the grades come out, when to go buy clothes, when to go to Grandma’s house, how many firecrackers to buy, where to play when the weather clears, will it snow this year.