The Wind Remembers That Light

Alzheimer's disease is like a slow tide, spreading over Lin Wan's memory shore little by little. The housewife who used to be able to recite the entire recipe book now has to struggle to recall her own name; the wife who used to always say that "Lao Chen's sweet and sour pork ribs are the most fragrant" began to call her husband Chen Mo "comrade". But Chen Mo wanted to be the "guardian" of her memory. He pulled out the old photo album at the bottom of the box, pointed to the girl with braided hair in the photo and said, "This is you, waiting for me to get off work under the rose stand in 1985." He placed the enamel cup he bought thirty years ago in her hand: "You always think that my tea is too hot and you have to let it dry. I'm willing to drink it only when it's cold." He even secretly recorded 300 voice lines, ranging from "I bought the oranges you like today" to "The rose pot on the balcony has bloomed, does it look like the red hijab when we got married?", Trying to weave a net with her voice to catch the pieces of her that were about to scatter. Forgetting is gentle Lingchi, but it is also the touchstone of affection. When Lin Wan suddenly held his hand one morning and mumbled "Old Chen, tie your apron straps tightly," Chen Mo's eyes turned red - it turned out that those daily routines worn by time had long been carved into each other's life rings. This is a story about "remembering": remembering the sweetness of sweet and sour pork ribs, remembering the fragrance of rose flowers, and remembering the sky that an ordinary man spent thirty years holding up for his lover to prevent the memory from completely collapsing. And the wind will remember that those old times that have been wiped away repeatedly by love have never really disappeared.