Walking Through Time

As a child, I resented my family's poverty and envied the umbrellas other kids had! My teacher's verbal abuse and the villagers' disdain drove me to dream of escaping the village! The endless chores around the village made it painfully clear how helpless my father felt without a son to rely on. But in the quiet moments between busy farming seasons, I also have warm memories of my parents. Those days seemed peaceful at first glance, but in truth, they were full of chaos. Even the crudest words concealed my parents' deep concern for us. The deeper their love, the farther they wanted us to go. In truth, they watched over every step we took. “You worry for a hundred years when you raise a child, and for ninety-nine of them, you're worried sick!” Perhaps it is only after raising children ourselves that we can understand our parents' sacrifices and all they did for us. They poured their youth and their time into the years that passed. In the blink of an eye, thirty years have gone by. The years have made them up, then forgotten to wipe off the powder, leaving crooked lines like tire tracks all over their faces. The two “big headlights” on their faces no longer shine. To them, their hometown is a dreamland. No matter how many painful memories they left behind here, no matter how much they argued and bickered, it remains the place where their dreams come to rest. Looking back on the road I've traveled, childhood memories come rushing back. I was born here and grew up here, and my heart still belongs here. I still long for the village's shen rice and the Five-Poverty Drum performances at New Year. The village elders watched me grow up, and the village teacher used the harshest methods to spur me ever onward. My parents devoted their whole lives to us. I should take up my pen and record, in the simplest words, the years they spent striving for us, bringing the deepest love they kept hidden in their hearts out into the light. For my parents, home is where they