During Grain Rain in 1983, I met Mrs. Chen under the Qingtong tree. She was wearing a rough indigo shirt, holding a half-year-old baby girl in her arms, and was throwing paper money into the old well. Fine tung flowers floated in the morning mist and fell on the white hair on her temples, which looked very much like the snow I saw in the county town that winter.
"Lin Zhiqing, do you want to eat new wheat steamed buns?" When she turned around, a mugwort glutinous rice cake rolled out from the bamboo basket, staining the bluestone with light green juice. I noticed that the ring finger of her left hand was wrapped with a strip of cloth, and the blood beads were slowly spreading, condensing into amber color in the morning mist.
