Jujube

Lao Liu, whose real name is Liu Gensheng, was born in 1958 in Huaishugou Village, northwest Shanxi. The village is sandwiched between two bare mountain ridges. It is yellow and barren, and wind and sand are swept into the cave dwellings all year round. My ancestors fled famine in Henan. My grandfather dug a cave dwelling to live in, and my father built an adobe house. Until Liu's generation, there were still a few leaky mud houses, a kang, and an iron pot. When he was thirteen, his father's leg was broken by a falling rock while he was chopping firewood, and he died six months later. Lao Liu dropped out of school to support the family. Married Xiulan at the age of eighteen. Xiulan was two years younger than him. She was the daughter of a carpenter from the next village. She was fair-skinned, with big eyes and a smile like a wild apricot flower. The bride was given a new quilt, a silver ring and an old iron pot. That pot became his most important thought. Life after marriage is hard, but there is light. Xiulan was weak and had difficulty giving birth. The first baby girl was not raised and she cried for two days. The second child, Xiaobao, was born thin and weak, crying as softly as a cat meowing. When Lao Liu held him, he felt like a stick of dry firewood that would be blown away by the wind. Xiulan was in confinement, and Lao Liu heated up hot water to wash her feet every night and put her feet in his arms to warm them. Xiulan smiled: "When your feet are warm, your heart will be warm." Xiaobao was five years old and Xiulan was pregnant again. That winter was extremely cold, with snow deep to the knees. On the night of delivery, the wind blew and the door banged. Old Liu slipped on the snowy road and his knee was bruised and bleeding. When the midwife came, Xiulan was in so much pain that she couldn't speak, and her blood was all over the bed. The baby died without a single cry after birth. Xiulan lost too much blood and turned as white as paper. Before she died, she held Old Liu's hand and said, "Old Liu, I'm cold." Old Liu covered her with the quilt and hugged Xiaobao to keep her warm. Her hands relaxed and her eyes closed. The moon was so full that day that it looked like it was going to fall down. Lao Liu held Xiulan and sat there until dawn. Xiaobao later died of coughing up blood at the age of seven. Before leaving, he said, "Dad, I'm going to find my mother." Old Liu nodded: "Go, don't fall." From then on, only Lao Liu was left in the house. The village said he had a tough life. He didn't believe in God, so he just sat in front of the stove, watching the fire go out and adding more wood. He is in his early sixties, with white hair, a hunched back, and a squeaky knee. All the young people are gone, leaving only the old man and the dog. He won't leave, nor will he die, he will just endure it. Stay until the jujube trees bear fruit, wait until the wine jar is empty, and wait until the nails in your heart are rusty. Living is not hope, but inertia. Hidden in inertia are Xiulan's smile, Xiaobao's cry, and the remaining warmth of the iron pot. He didn't complain, just remained silent, like the wind on the mountain ridge, which passed by and became silent. Intention: "What a person endures in this life is not suffering, but the passion that prevents oneself from being completely empty."