My grandma died at the age of 99.
At the funeral, a roomful of relatives were noisily settling old scores. I didn't interfere, I sneaked into the old house alone and found my grandma's diary. She wrote: "I worked as a cow and horse for the Liu family for forty-six years. Now I want to live for myself for a few years. Is it wrong?"
I squatted on the ground and cried until I couldn't breathe. I hated her for half my life, and then I understood what she taught me all my life: When you live, you have to live for yourself.
Later I returned to the village and called Faxiao to accompany the village children. As a result, he brought a whole team of people - the documentary director who always had the camera pointed at him, the drama actor who was obsessed with life in the Northeast, and the rational and gentle AI engineer.
My sister also came with her brother-in-law and little daughter. My brother-in-law carried a camera and took pictures of everyone every day. When the aunt in the village asked, "What are you taking pictures of?"
Routao licked the ice railing and her tongue stuck to it, crying for her aunt. I laughed while watering the water: "I did this when I was a kid."
Huang Xu was complained by parents, saying that he did not teach but only played with their children. We all went to battle, and finally the parents took the initiative to apologize.
During the Chinese New Year, when I talked about my grandpa's sixtieth birthday, the tables in the room flew up. Liu Mucheng said: "It was not easy at that time." We raised our glasses together: "Here's to you now."
This is the life of us Northeasterners—jumping and crying, crying and laughing, but no one is separated.
When we come back, we just want to live a warm life, take good care of people, and get our hearts back. By the way, let me prove that Northeastern people not only know how to fool around, but also live a good life.
