This is a prose poem about my father.
His father's name is Chen Jianguo, who was born in 1966. He died suddenly of hypertensive cerebral hemorrhage in the summer of 2012 at the age of 46.
He drives a truck and does transportation. His palms are rough and there is always black oil between his fingernails that cannot be washed away. He was not good at words and had never said "I love you" in his life, but he left an old notebook by his bedside, densely filled with concerns for his four children——
The eldest daughter, Chen Xue, was born in 1989 and became sensible early. After graduating from junior high school, she worked to support her younger siblings in their studies. When her father left, her son had just turned one year old and had not yet learned to call him grandpa.
The second daughter, Chen Yue, was born in 1990. She was given away due to family poverty and was never recovered. My father searched for him for twenty-two years, and until the morning of his collapse, he still wrote the words "the whereabouts of the second child" in his notebook.
The third daughter, Chen Xun, was born in 1991, with the word "Xun" hidden in her name. She was called "Second Sister" since she was a child, and was her father's most stubborn compensation for his lost daughter.
The youngest son, Chen Xiao, was born in 1998. When his father left, he had just finished the second grade of junior high school and was fourteen years old. He didn't have time to grow up, and his father didn't have time to grow old.
Many years later, Chen Xiao played "Father's Prose Poems" late at night. The melody sounded, and the fragments of his father's life appeared before his eyes - those silent, forbearing, and unspeakable love, all hidden in a worn-out notebook.
This is a memory about loss and search, the life of an ordinary Chinese farmer, and a portrait of a generation of fathers who are collectively silent.
"Dad, you said you would cook braised pork for me when you came back. I've been waiting."
