The wind in Yixian always carries the clear, bitter scent of millet and sorghum, unlike the wind in Beijing, which is wrapped in the cold hardness of steel and concrete. That small county town nestled in the hills of western Liaoning is like the old pocket watch my grandfather always carried in his later years; the markings on its dial moved slowly, as if even time itself wished to rest a while longer in the cracks of the Gulou's bricks. I often suspected that my hometown was a corner forgotten by time. The old locust tree on East Street still bore the scar I saw in kindergarten; the grandfather selling cotton candy at the county hospital entrance still wound sugar strands on a bamboo stick just like twenty years ago, pulling out translucent threads that reflected the sunlight.
I spent half a month at the county kindergarten. The dirt playground was packed solid by children's feet, forming shallow puddles on rainy days that reflected the shadow of the crooked-neck elm tree. I loved squatting by the wall watching ants move breadcrumbs, my cuffs stained with yellow earth, the tip of my nose smudged with dust, but the air I breathed into my lungs was sweet—devoid of Beijing's suffocating smog, the wind even mixed with the moisture from the Donghetao area, carrying a bit of dampness from the Liao River's tributaries. Grandfather came to pick me up every evening, his blue cloth jacket dotted with grass blades from the fields, always clutching a roasted sweet potato, its skin charred black, releasing a warm, sweet steam when broken open. He held my hand walking on the flagstone road, our footsteps tapping firmly on the blue stones. Passing the bike repair shop, the old master would stick his head out and call, "Old Ma, picking up your grandson?" Grandfather would answer with a laugh, his voice wrapped in contented warmth.
Later, Grandfather's illness became the family's dark cloud. The first year we went to 301 Hospital, I had just started first grade, clutching my mother's hem in the corridor, watching the surgery room's red light glare harshly. The window at the end of the corridor faced the street; you could see the sign of the beef noodle shop across the way, yellow background with red characters, swaying in the deep autumn wind. Mother always bought two bowls of beef noodles outside the surgery room; the beef slices were so thin you could see light through them, scallions floating in the broth. She always said we'd eat them hot when Grandfather came out, but often by the time the red light went off, the noodles were cold, a thin layer of oil congealed on the soup's surface. When Grandfather came out of surgery, his face was pale, but he would still force a smile and say, "It's okay, I can still eat Yixian 's roasted sweet potatoes with you."
For the next eleven years, the hospital became a relay station between Beijing and Yixian. Grandfather's medical records piled up thick, each page noting surgery times, medication dosages, like a book filled with suffering. Before each surgery, he would hold Mother's hand and chatter, saying remember to fix the roof of the old house on South Street, saying the grain coupons hidden in the camphorwood chest were for me as a memento, saying once he was better, he would take me to catch fish in the Daling River. Mother cried every time, her tears falling on the back of his hand. He would pat her hand with his other, comforting her like when she was a child: "What are you crying for? I haven't even seen my grandson grow up yet."
During those years, I always returned to Yixian for winter and summer vacations. Grandfather sat on the edge of kang, telling me stories from his youth. He said in the 60s he worked as a blacksmith at the county agricultural machinery factory; the iron pieces glowed red, and swinging the sledgehammer, sparks could fly to the roof. He said Mother, when little, always secretly followed him to the workshop, squatting in a corner watching him work, clutching a piece of sheet metal, saying she wanted to make a toy train. When he told these stories, his eyes shone like stars over the Daling River, as if those hard days were plated with a warm light. Once he pulled a tinplate toy train from the camphorwood chest; its wheels were rusty, the body dented, but it was Mother's most treasured toy as a child. "Your mother was just like you back then, loved squatting on the doorstep playing with this," Grandfather stroked the little train, "In the blink of an eye, you're all so grown up."
Grandfather's health improved somewhat the year I started high school; he could drive himself to the hospital for check-ups. The yard in Yixian always grew sunflowers; when they bloomed in summer, the golden flower heads faced the sun like little lanterns. " Yixian's sky is still better, so blue it could be a mirror." I looked up; indeed, the sky was cleaner than Beijing's, the clouds like cotton candy, drifting slowly.
The last time I saw Grandfather was in the old house in Yixian. He lay in bed, his breathing labored, yet he could still recognize me, still clearly remember where every item in the house was placed. He had arranged his own funeral affairs, seen everyone he wanted to see. And so, on one utterly ordinary morning, his eyes tightly shut, his lips moved but no words came out. Outside the window, the rain fell densely, rustling against the window frames. Behind the mosque, the sunset over the Daling River slowly sank into the distant mountain col. As if whispering. He no longer needed to endure the suffering brought by his illness—those years of surgeries were like blunt knives, slowly grinding down his body. In the end, his liver couldn't hold on, like the gears of an old machine finally ceasing to turn. He said he had no regrets in this life, his only pity was not seeing me go to university.
This year during Qingming, I returned to Yixian and specifically went to the Fengguo Temple. The Seven Buddhas in the Main Hall remained solemn, the patterns on their robes still holding the warmth of the Liao Dynasty craftsmen. Sunlight slanted in through the window lattices, casting dappled patterns on the blue brick floor, the air scented with sandalwood. Standing before the Buddhas, I suddenly remembered Grandfather's words, remembered him holding my hand walking on the flagstone road, remembered the cold beef noodles in the corridor of 301 Hospital, remembered the shallow puddles on the dirt playground of the county kindergarten. Tears welled up suddenly, falling soundlessly onto the blue bricks.
Leaving the Fengguo Temple, I walked back along East Street. The shadow of the old locust tree fell on the ground like a light ink painting. The old master at the bike repair shop was still there, only his hair completely white. Passing the county kindergarten, the dirt playground had been replaced with plastic turf, no longer forming shallow puddles, but the ants by the wall were still there, still moving breadcrumbs, as if repeating an unchanging time.
In the evening, at the old house, I opened Grandfather's camphorwood chest. Inside were still that stack of medical records and Mother's tinplate train. The moon outside was very round, its light spilling onto the sunflower stalks in the yard like a layer of frost. I remembered last year at the beef noodle shop opposite 301 Hospital, I ordered a bowl of beef noodles; the broth tasted the same as before, but there was no longer that person beside me waiting for Grandfather to come out. A message from Mother suddenly popped up on my phone: "Remember to add clothes, Yixian is cool at night." Looking at the screen, I suddenly understood: some things have never left—Grandfather is in the wind of my hometown, in the sandalwood scent of the Fengguo Temple, in the water ripples of the Daling River, in that warm, clear, bitter-scented remembrance of the homeland that rises in my heart whenever I think of it.
The night breeze drifted through the window, carrying the moisture from the Donghetao. I seemed to hear Grandfather's footsteps again, tapping firmly on the blue flagstones, holding my hand, walking under the moonlight of Yixian.
Writing Anew:
Confined to these northern barren lands, where millet carries its clear fragrance, Between the western hills and southern pass, beyond what destined years might glimpse, Time passes, and what once blossomed fades. There are nights of brilliant moons—twelve nights without a break; There are spells of drizzling rain—though but three days, unceasing still. Following an inner desire, I perceive the autumn rain's deceptive warmth, Just as it ends, yet what I seek remains elusive—this bitter summer.
On a sparse mat, in a cup-sized dwelling, cranes flow like jade; Willows bathed in spring, wind chilled with tears. The daylight still holds warmth, yet in lonely lodgings, sleep does not come. I imagine the pine ridge, desolate and cold, wine poured freely, dew sprawling, This pure bitterness stoops, tainted by dusty winds. Suddenly, clouds gather at the window, rain brews over layered peaks, Gulping gravel, spitting grains of sand. A roaring weariness of heart, fading gradually like a receding tide, Accompanied by misty haze, slowly returning. The melody ends, yet is unfinished; grief pierces, sorrow aches.
I know you embody utmost purity and clarity, Yet we never shared a cup, washing worldly dust together. Your steps swift as the wind, riding a crane light and swift, vanishing beyond the dust, The empty valley thus loses your echo. All flowers have bloomed, entirely for your sake, I would gladly give my heart. Thinking of facing utter anguish, then the road turns, Countless hardships thus abandoned, their fruit unattained, Layers piled, pressures old, yet not a withered or erased form. How can it bear the heavy burden of sudden downpours? Arriving thus, it becomes this bitter summer.
Yesterday, bewildered and with rain running wild, Hearing these words, I sighed, "The long regret of life, like water, ever flows east." Long I felt uneasy, stunned, before realizing you had already departed. How I raised my arm, waved and called, only to feel the bewildered separation of us both. Then my words turned hurried, rambling, But in the end, I merely thought of the deep autumn's clear cold, and wished you would just add an extra layer. How can a single thought persist from start to finish? I wonder if we shall see such a moonlit night again, with its clear breeze? It should be that on Zhongyuan, our moon shadows meet, Dawn after dusk, yet heavily, I cannot lift my eyes—so the moon hastens by. My wounded heart holds feelings, threads of thought ten thousand strong, Recalling the vast, pursuing the sea. Touched by ancestors, moved with gratitude, Dimly, distantly, all conveyed into my heart.
焉复得一念而必从而至终，不知若见是夜月明复清风？应是中元月影共，朝而复夕，奈何沉沉不及抬目而竟月匆匆。伤感怀而丝思万缕，忆天苍阔，追海沧浪。蒙宗祖而感念，渺渺然悉致之吾怀。
Thus separated, thinking of it already brings tears, I know not how, from this point on, to speak.
