(I swear this is a male-oriented novel. Don't get hung up on it, just come in and take a look. It's not a female-oriented novel, it's not a female-oriented novel!!!!)
The memories from when I was two are like shattered glass, sharp yet blurred.
I only remember the smell of disinfectant filling my nose as an ambulance siren tore through the predawn fog.
Later, someone told me that when the runaway truck came crashing toward us, Father held me tightly in his arms, and Mother's hand was the last to touch my face. It was warm, and smelled sweetly of the oranges she'd just peeled.
I never saw the photos of the accident scene, but the police officer who handled the aftermath said that inside the mangled car, I was the only one still strapped into my safety seat, blood seeping from my temple, giggling away. They said my smile was like a crack, and everyone there was moved to tears.
By the time Grandpa came to take me home, his back had bent like a bridge. He wrapped me in an old quilt that smelled of mothballs, and his rough palm kept rubbing the scar on my temple as he murmured, “Yuanming, let's go home.” In that old single-story house, Grandpa always cooked me eggs at the stove in the early morning. He peeled them perfectly clean, and the warmth of his fingertips still lingered on the whites. I would sit on a little stool and watch him mend my clothes with hands covered in cracks, the thread tracing crooked circles across the fabric.
It feels ok, feel free to eat it.