I Dare Not Write About My Hometown

My hometown — I have picked up my pen countless times, yet never dared to write about it. Afraid that once I start, those buried memories, those irretrievable moments, would flash before my eyes like scenes from a movie, leaving me in awe and wistful sorrow.

My hometown, Xiachai Market, lies on the eastern bank of the Ouchi River — a rustic and tranquil village. Standing atop the flood control embankment and gazing into the distance, I see crisscrossing canals and scattered ponds. An irrigation ditch winds through the village, strumming a melody as it flows into the distance.

After the college entrance exam that year, I set out from here, leaving the land that raised me. I went to the provincial capital Changsha for university, then to the metropolis Guangzhou for work, gradually pulling my roots away from this place. Yet whenever I had the chance — even if it meant taking a crowded train for over ten hours, even if I could only stay for two or three days — I would rush home with excitement and anticipation. Because here lies my hometown. Here lives my mother.

The day before yesterday, summoned by a mother's love and driven by homesickness, I returned to my hometown once more. Stepping off the bus, I — now middle-aged, carrying the heavy shell of work and family on my back like a snail — stood at the village entrance as solid as a black water buffalo returning home at dusk. What greeted me were the golden rice paddies of July, the fragrance of flowers, and the chirping of magpies...

From afar, I saw my mother standing at the doorway, leaning on her cane and gazing in my direction. In that moment, my legs grew so heavy I could barely move. Her white hair, like withered grass on a haystack, suddenly blazed into burning flames. My tears streamed uncontrollably. I rushed over, choked back a sob, and called out, "Mom!" then fell to my knees before her. I felt as if I had sunk into the deepest water — all people, objects, and sounds vanished, leaving only the familial love flooding up from the depths of memory, consuming my entire being. When I was young, I always thought my mother was a mountain that would never crumble, my warmest harbor. But now, time has carved its marks deeply into her face, and left a wound in my heart that will never fully heal.

That afternoon at home, I couldn't help but take a walk through the village. As I walked, someone suddenly called out behind me, "Jiuman, you're back!" Turning around, I saw Liu Weixing, a childhood friend. We chatted for a while, laughing about all sorts of things from our youth. When we were kids, we ran wild like little beasts, barefoot on winding country paths — soft earth beneath our feet, the scent of grass and trees at our noses, the wind carrying nothing but youthful carefreeness. We went to the fields to pick wild vegetables, chased butterflies and picked flowers, watched wheat seedlings grow tall, knowing nothing of the world's sorrows. We splashed and played in the ditches and ponds, swimming as agile as loaches — those were the liveliest joys, the purest of times. Time flows like water, rippling across our faces, relentlessly carving ravines and valleys, covering our once-youthful features with the marks of years, never to find our youthful selves again.

I left Weixing and walked on in silence, hands clasped behind my back. At the southern edge of the village, I came upon the grave of Granny Ju. She was a kind and gentle soul, always smiling, speaking in a soft voice. She used to sit on the threshing ground, stitching shoe soles, and whenever she saw me passing by, she would rise and ask how I was doing. Before I started middle school, when my mother was at a loss because she couldn't find materials for my school desk, Granny Ju heard about it and told me to come and take my pick from her place — fine fir wood, all I wanted. After my high school entrance exam, when I left for county town for senior high, she specially bought me a set of tableware... Now Granny Ju is gone. No more casual chats to be had, no more greetings to be exchanged. Standing before her grave, thinking of her warm smile, my nose stung with grief.

Leaving Granny Ju's grave, I couldn't help but linger a while at the site of our old house. The leftover bricks, stones, and broken tiles seemed ready to revive vivid memories at the slightest touch. The chimney smoke seemed still to rise, the fragrance of wood-fired rice still lingering, the laughter of the family gathered around the stove for tea still echoing... The stone mill hadn't moved from its original spot either — as if it had been waiting for me to return, so I could find it in an instant. When I was young, during holidays, neighbors would all come to our house to grind flour. The sound of the millstone turning was like an ancient ballad. The adults would chat and laugh as they worked, while the children played and roughhoused nearby. Now the stone mill has retired from the stage of history. Those laughs and the sound of the turning mill have become distant memories, never to be heard again.

I emerged from my reverie and walked toward the Ouchi River. In the old days, summer would bring the river rushing down from upstream, teeming with fish and shrimp. When the temperature rose at noon, I would grab a fish basket in one hand and a net in the other and jump into the water. In just an hour or two, I could haul up half a bucket of small fish and shrimp — a prized addition to our family's meals and a rare source of pride in my boyhood. The riverbank was thick with weeds — a natural pasture for my water buffalo. I would tether the buffalo to a bush, and as it slowly grazed in a circle, I would lie on my back on the grass, watching the clouds roll and unfold across the sky, and the birds soaring freely beneath the blue heavens — until mother's distant calls for me to come home for dinner ended my communion with the sky. The river is still here today, its ripples shimmering, but it can no longer reflect the boy who once fished and herded cattle here.

Back home, I sat alone before the computer, ready to write about my hometown. The moon quietly slipped in through the window. I leaned out to look — a thin crescent, slender and gaunt. Perhaps we've been apart too long, and it's grown shy of me. It showed half its face, then turned and hid behind the clouds. It struck me that the moon of my childhood was not like this. Back then, when I walked, it walked with me; when I stopped, it stopped too. On summer nights, after my mother carried me inside from cooling off by the pond, the moon would quietly peek through the window to caress me — soft and serene, ethereal and tender. Mother would sit on the edge of the bed, fanning me as she hummed a nursery rhyme: "Mooncake moon, dog bites grandpa, bites him where..." I would drift off to sleep, but mother's song would continue, like a gentle moonbeam falling upon my pillow, falling into my dreams. I can't help it — tears stream down my face. In the end, I still dare not write about my hometown. I can only gaze upon it, again and again...