Marriage

About This Novel

This winter is like the winter when I was a child: just entering the twelfth lunar month, the sky was covered with snow. The snow fell one after another on the haystacks, the plastic paper on the pig pen, on the gray-yellow wheat fields, and on the vegetables in the garden. There are thin white branches standing on the bare trees. The wind sometimes blows through the hall, blowing past the couplets posted on the door last year. The red couplet has turned gray-white, and the ink has also turned gray-black. The ink slid down along the path soaked by the rain, and drew light gray lines on the gray-white red paper. On the third afternoon when the snow stopped, I sat at the door and told the old ladies who came to visit me about my grandmother who had been dead for more than ten years. They were still in good health, but she had been lying under the peach tree by the Qinghe River for twelve years.

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