Afternoon of Broom Flowers Blooming

We are like weeds on the ridges of the fields, growing wild among the doting of our ancestors and the sticks of our parents. Grandma's mugwort glutinous rice cakes and grandpa's old erhu are the only sweetness of our childhood. Later, in order to escape from the land, we were sent to boarding school, but we also walked into another isolated island. The scars on my brother's body, my sister's crying in the middle of the night, and the increasing number of thin lines on my wrists all failed to bring them a word of understanding. When the first handful of new soil covered my urn and the waves of wheat rolled, they finally lowered their raised fists, but I could no longer see them.