Have a Bowl of Soy Milk and Fried Dough Sticks

The old woman guarded her late husband's hand-mill, grinding a bowl of soy milk every day and pouring it into the coarse porcelain bowl he used during his lifetime. When her daughter persuaded her to move, she shook her head: "When the grinding sound stopped, he no longer knew the way home." On the eve of the demolition, she turned the grinder for the last time, and the wooden handle suddenly broke. Under the moonlight, she found a line of small words engraved on the heart of the mill: "Douxiang lives for me." She pushed the millstone into the pond and watched the ripples spread out in circles. When the bulldozers came the next day, there were a few newly bloomed water lilies floating on the surface of the pond, with bean dregs in their hearts - like someone gently returning the grinding days to spring.