A Trace of Memory from Home

After more than a decade away, I return to my hometown. The river has grown murky, moss covers the stone steps, and the old locust tree seems much shorter than before. In truth, my horizons have simply widened, making everything look smaller. In the old house, Mother's white hair sways faintly in the dim light as she slowly picks through the green beans, one at a time. A Sheng, my childhood playmate, still tends his family's tofu shop. Quiet and awkward, he speaks only of the burdens of making a living. The Wang family's courtyard next door lies in ruins. Their only son went south and never came back. At night, I sit with Mother beneath the lamplight and listen as she recounts the people of the village: some have died, others have left. At the river where we used to play, the water is shallow, the bridge has collapsed, and the reeds are gone. When I leave, I pause at the village entrance. Someone watches from a distance but does not come over.

This is a farewell long overdue. My hometown has never disappeared. It simply is no longer where it used to be.