Watching in the Smoke

About This Novel

Wu Zhiwei's childhood was woven by two women. My mother, Wu Anran, was a typical housewife in the 1970s. She used rags and nagging to establish order at home. Her world was made up of the flames of the gas stove and the clothes floating on the balcony. Grandma came from the countryside in late summer and autumn, bringing with her the smell of earth. Her palms were rough, but she could identify the temperament of each seed. The father, Mao Qi, went away to work after his daughter was born, and became a vague name as a remitter. Grandpa Wu Yongtai is like an old tree on the field ridge, silently guarding his grandmother's vegetable garden. In the gaps between the city buildings, my grandma opened up a small countryside. She taught Zhiwei how to identify wild vegetables, saying that bitter vegetables clear away fire and purslane cures dysentery. The mother disagrees with this. She firmly believes that her daughter's future lies in the exercise book, not in the mud. Until one evening, Zhiwei saw her mother squatting beside her grandma's vegetable bed, learning how to set up tomatoes. The setting sun stretched the shadows of the two women very long, covering the cold concrete floor. At that moment, she suddenly understood that what she inherited was not the specific countryside or city, but the silent resilience in them - no matter where they take root, they can make life bloom.

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