When I was five, my parents had a baby brother.
They were too overwhelmed to pay attention to me.
So, I was sent to my grandma’s place in the countryside.
She was a stern old woman, with a hard expression that made me cry the moment I saw her.
My parents didn’t stay. They got in the car while I was still throwing a tantrum on the ground.
I chased after the car, running and running, until it disappeared from sight.
Grandma hobbled behind me with her cane, trying to keep up.
Afraid she might catch me, I kept running.
When I was too exhausted and sobbing to continue, I collapsed by the side of the dirt road and threw up.
The little old lady bent down, pointed to her curved back, and said, “Climb on, I’ll carry you so you can keep chasing.”
That day, despite her own weary legs, she struggled on, panting like an old ox, until I finally stopped fussing.
From an old trunk, she pulled out various colored drinks and milk.
Orange juice, fresh milk. Who knows how long she’d saved them?
I glanced and pushed them away in disdain.
“They’re expired; I can't drink them!”
Grandma picked them up, checking with regret in her eyes.
“Oh, what a waste—no one ever comes to visit, and I couldn’t bring myself to drink them.”
At first, I was put off by this disheveled old woman.
But later, I realized she was the kindest to me.
The darkness in her wrinkled face wasn't dirt—it was the sun’s mark, a testament to her hard work in the fields.
In her gnarled fingers lay the seeds of hope she planted for life.
This practical farmer, worn by age, cared for me as if I were her crop.
She’d get up at dawn, carrying a bamboo basket for miles to buy milk to nourish me.
The hens at home were lazy, barely laying two eggs a day.
I had one in the morning, one at night.
Grandma would put one in the warm coal oven.
The eggs would often burst, filling the room with the rich scent of yolk.
Farm-fresh eggs tasted better than city ones; I’d eat one in two bites.
I asked Grandma why she didn’t eat them, and she’d nibble on cold potatoes with a grin, saying old folks get sick from eggs, but potatoes are the best for them.
Skeptical, I once tried her frozen potatoes. Terrible.
I often asked when my parents would return.
She’d say, when the snow falls, they’ll be back.
I hated the cold snow but longed for Christmas.
Then Mom and Dad would come back.
I never expected I’d end on such a winter night, unnoticed.