"Mom, where does the snow come from?"
"When the moon is cold at night, I rub my hands together, and the moonlight turns into snow." On New Year's Eve in 1983, my grandmother taught me to stuff the last date into the rice cake in the kitchen. She said that after the moonlight fell on the ground for a long time, it turned into snow - snow is the moon's old clothes, which are not willing to be thrown to the world until they are worn out.
Many years later, I opened a yellowed account book in a high-rise building in the city and shook out a food stamp, half a pencil and a dried jasmine flower. The account book was left behind by my grandfather, and every page recorded some worthless things: the blue and white floral fabrics exchanged for two feet of cloth notes, the sixteen and fifty cents I spent to buy briquettes in winter, and the thirty kilograms of rice I borrowed on the day I was born. But as I turned over and over, in the gaps between these numbers, I smelled the smell of sparks in the stove, heard the squeaking sound of the bamboo chair, and saw the moonlight shining through the window pane on the blue brick floor - the old clothes my grandmother talked about.
At that time, we had nothing. But the moon never misses, and the snow comes as scheduled every year. Now that I am rich, I find that I can no longer save such white things.
So I took up my pen and wrote down those past moonlights.
Purpose: This is a book about "seeing possession only after losing it" - materially we have nothing, spiritually we have everything, and time ultimately proves that the latter is true.