Flowers of Magnolia
The Magnolia tree in front of our building is about to bloom. The white buds grow bigger each day. On the other side of the street, there is another one full of pink buds. They always bloom in early spring before the wake of other flowers. By the time the flowers fade and the green leaves are fatter, summer is coming.
There were nine of them, which I tore and destroyed. Each marked the year I spent, yet it took me only two days to eliminate them. I still have three with me, which I will keep. There is one letter from her I didn't burn. But now I think it is really not necessary. He once said I cherish other's stuff more than my own. He was probably right. He burned whatever was left, so, so long, the passed past...
We are defined by our memories, and hastened by our destiny. Life is like a roller coaster that you can only see three feet ahead. Whatever twists and turns there are, we all come to one end.
We used to live in this typical oblong courtyard called Siheyuan, only that it was not very typical as it was crowded with multiple families, with additions here and there altering its original symmetrical structure. It was one of the many in a labyrinth of courtyards, connected by narrow pathways.
The landlady was a distant relative of my family. She and her family occupied three spacious rooms. Whenever she spoke there was a squeaky sound from her month, a work of misfit denture and air. When we were tired of playing, she often treated us with delicious pastries and tea. She would make us sit around the fireplace, pass around cookies and tea, and watch us eat.
We were wild kids except Yang. He was always neat and clean and good mannered. He played violin. He lived with his parents and grandmother in the two rooms next to ours. They had a small garden in front of their window, where there was a small Magnolia tree, a grape plant and white champaca. When the white champaca bloomed, the whole courtyard was filled with its bold sweetness.
We never knew anything about Yang's grandfather. But one autumn day, all of sudden there he was, with four big suitcases. As the gossip went, Big Yang's grandmother was wife to a chief official of the KMT who escaped to Taiwan before the new regime took over the city. He set up a new family in Taiwan but could not forget his original wife and children. After forty years he made his way back.
Last year I went back to the courtyard. It is no longer there. The whole area has been built with high rise condo buildings. The narrow maze like lanes where I used to wander about for soy-sauce, vinegar, and candies also vanished. The grocery stores, breakfast stands and noodle places at the main street are all gone. The only reminiscent of the past is the Phoenix trees, old and scarred, still standing on both sides of the main street.
There were nine of them, which I tore and destroyed. Each marked the year I spent, yet it took me only two days to eliminate them. I still have three with me, which I will keep. There is one letter from her I didn't burn. But now I think it is really not necessary. He once said I cherish other's stuff more than my own. He was probably right. He burned whatever was left, so, so long, the passed past...
We are defined by our memories, and hastened by our destiny. Life is like a roller coaster that you can only see three feet ahead. Whatever twists and turns there are, we all come to one end.
We used to live in this typical oblong courtyard called Siheyuan, only that it was not very typical as it was crowded with multiple families, with additions here and there altering its original symmetrical structure. It was one of the many in a labyrinth of courtyards, connected by narrow pathways.
The landlady was a distant relative of my family. She and her family occupied three spacious rooms. Whenever she spoke there was a squeaky sound from her month, a work of misfit denture and air. When we were tired of playing, she often treated us with delicious pastries and tea. She would make us sit around the fireplace, pass around cookies and tea, and watch us eat.
We were wild kids except Yang. He was always neat and clean and good mannered. He played violin. He lived with his parents and grandmother in the two rooms next to ours. They had a small garden in front of their window, where there was a small Magnolia tree, a grape plant and white champaca. When the white champaca bloomed, the whole courtyard was filled with its bold sweetness.
We never knew anything about Yang's grandfather. But one autumn day, all of sudden there he was, with four big suitcases. As the gossip went, Big Yang's grandmother was wife to a chief official of the KMT who escaped to Taiwan before the new regime took over the city. He set up a new family in Taiwan but could not forget his original wife and children. After forty years he made his way back.
Last year I went back to the courtyard. It is no longer there. The whole area has been built with high rise condo buildings. The narrow maze like lanes where I used to wander about for soy-sauce, vinegar, and candies also vanished. The grocery stores, breakfast stands and noodle places at the main street are all gone. The only reminiscent of the past is the Phoenix trees, old and scarred, still standing on both sides of the main street.
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