Things that only became, meaningful, now that you're, older, and recalled everything from your own, childhood…translated…
In the township where I live, there's only limited number of times when the bus would come, my mother only knew how to ride the bicycles, and, going to my grandmother, it takes her, thirty minutes. And, several times we'd waited for the buses to come, and they'd not. My father is busy at work, couldn't take us. "Too costly for the cabs, let's walk.", no room for discussion, mother pulled on my hand, and we'd, gone.
Turning left out of my home, a few hundred meters of walking, then, we'd, hit the long Fuxing Road, reason why I'd remembered the name of the road was because this was the path I took to school, and to get back home from school. There were the rice paddies all around, on the way we walked to my grandmother's in Dazhou Village, my mother would hand me a pinwheel, to help get me settled down from the heat and the long walk. The sights of the birds, the flowers, and the rice fields, are a good diversion from boredom and fatigue, for the two of us, mother and daughter, who'd made this, "mecca" weekly, the fields aren't just sights, but, the markers of measuring the distances.
At the end of the Fuxing Road there was an embankment, on the way, my mother would call to me, recite the times table, or the poetry. And, maybe, it's how she'd wanted to get home faster, even as I'd, recited the things wrong, she'd still rewarded me with, candy. My mother often told me about the histories of her families, and the land, recalled back to whichever generations that's come to Dazhou, and how the village looked different from when she was growing up versus now, when my grandmother started operating her shop to make a living, and, on our way home, we'd, walked across a patch that's been, flooded in the past, and where it'd, extended to, and which child of my grandmother's moved to the cities in the north.
I'd not calculated how many steps it took me, but, I'd often, complained of how faraway my maternal grandmother's house waws, I'd, recited the times tables a hundred times at least, and started, picking up the rocks on the path. It was, ill fitted to carry what's heavy and weighing me down as I hurried along, and as I'd, seen a rock that caught my sight, I'd, tossed the ones I'd picked up, picking up, throwing, as I'd, gone, it was, difficult, for me, to not get, hesitant, about it.
As I'd walked until I was, too tired, I would get mad, and, wanted to, give up, and, all of these emotions, slowly, faded away, as my mother, continued to, console with me, "if you get too tired in the future, then, don't come, visit me when you're, older", that was what my mother, told me often, which made me know, how we're, connected by blood, and this connection will, never be, broken.
I'd started, paying attention to the light and shadow from the sun on the embankment at the end of the Fuxing Road, and started, tying my hair ribbons on the stems of those, long, grasses, and next time I pass by, I'd, checked if the ribbons were, still, there, and this "game" I'd played, had gotten me to contemplate on the meaning of, "eternity".
On our way to my grandmother's, the wind, the rocks, the bridge, the lights and shadows, they're, all languages, and maybe, in the moment, I couldn't, quite understand them, but, there were already, the symbols, etched, inside of me, that were, waiting to be, translated, as I, grew, older. We usually set out by ten in the morn on the weekends, when we arrived, my grandmother would call aloud: time for lunch. I'd put on the wooden slippers she had at her home, that was when I'd, found dusts, covering up my worn out, shoes, how my soles felt, sore and, numbed, and how there were, the redness from my heels from walking and wearing my shoes all the way.
And, my father normally had, come and given us a lift back home on our returns. Once, he'd driven past the embankment, the golden red of the setting sun, sank, right where the fields met the mountains in the distance, and the lights of the tiny houses in the fields, started, twinkling on, that orange glow of the setting sun was, too, breathtakingly beautiful. In the era where there's, no technologies to capture the sights, I can, only, take the shots, with my, mind, and my, eyes.
Later on, my grandmother fell, and injured her femur and can only, stay in bed, and due to her repeated pneumonia, she became, weakened, and my parents took her home to care for her, the guest room became her hospital ward. The guest room is adjacent to the living room, while I was watching T.V., when I'd turned my head, I could see my grandmother on her bed, and I'd, talked with her on her favorite Taiwanese opera, to help her ease her, boredom.
and, here's the, funeral, procession, line...photo from online
We'd only gotten to talk about the Taiwanese operas for six months, then, I'd, walked behind the long line of the funeral processions. Because I'm a maternal granddaughter, I'm only, allowed to stay in the back of that line, from my own home, to the Dazhou Village in Sanxing, the route, as the one we took every single time, but, it'd not felt, too long this time.
The farthest distance was, the guest room at our house, as my parents disposed of all my maternal grandmother's, clothes, and, as I'd, tilted my head in, called aloud, there was, only, the light echoes in the air, seemed like, she was, never, here…
And so, this, is your experiences with death, at a, very young age, and, walking to your grandmother's home became, a prominent memory, and because you were young, and didn't know the meanings back then, and you're, only, beginning, to understand the meanings of everything that's happened in your, lives as you grow older by the day now.
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