When the midwife blew out sparks from her copper pipe in the twelfth lunar month, the retrograde "I" came into the world with an umbilical cord as purple and black as an iron chain. The mother's blood soaked seven pieces of adobe and buried them under the old locust tree, even the locust flowers were dyed red. From the blood flowers on the Tukang to the black mud of the coal kiln, from the iron shacks of the shanty towns to the salt water of Wangchuan Lake, "I" limped, amidst the dust of the struggle meetings, the cinders of the mining disaster, and the ruins of demolition, I followed my father to touch frozen fish, collected rags with my cousin, and cooked medicinal soup with my third aunt.
The bones gnawed thin by famine, the spine broken by landslides, and the flesh soaked in lake water are like rust-colored umbilical cords wrapped around every period of time. But when the lake bed cracked into tortoise shells, red grass emerged from the bones, when green buds broke through the ash soil, and white flowers reflected the light of the underground river, "I" finally understood: Those names buried in the soil, bones rotten in the water, and tears floating in the wind were never scars that should be forgotten - they are the nutrients of the land, the power that makes seeds germinate, the most ruthless counterattack against forgetfulness, and the light that will eventually shine in the embers.
Intention: I want to write about the forgotten pain.