Chapter 6

My mother was a little tired from crying.

I held her in my arms and softly told her many stories.

I told her about the surrender of the invaders, about the ceremonial cannon fire on October 1st.

I also told her about the heavy snow on the banks of the Yalu River, and the smoke of gunpowder in the dense forests of the southwest.

And about going to the countryside, going into business.

Electric lights and telephones, television and computers.

Mobile phones and tablets, skyscrapers and bridges.

When I ran out of words, I grabbed a few sheets of paper and started drawing for her.

I drew a big five-star red flag.

I drew rockets that could fly into outer space, and buildings shaped like giant trousers.

I drew chips that could hold all the books, and trains that could run underground.

My mother sat beside me, wide-eyed like a child learning to read, listening to my stories and watching me draw.

I gestured and sketched with enthusiasm, while she tried her best to imagine.

She tried to picture all those things that were so ordinary to me, but things she had never seen.

When she really couldn’t imagine them, she would smile and say, “Good, really good.”

The emotions in her eyes were too complex.

I couldn’t understand them.

But I wanted to cry, I felt so much regret.

Regret that I couldn’t truly let her see the new China that came after.

When dawn was breaking.

My mother pushed open the door, took some yellow paper, and burned it in my backyard.

She squatted on the ground, her whole body curled up into a small ball.

Facing the firelight, she spoke softly.

Hot tears fell into the flames, making them burn even brighter.

I guessed, maybe she was reporting to her Comrades from back then.