My era, 1979!

Chapter 72 Where Wild Roses Grow, That's My Home

Where wild roses grow, there is my home.

Author: Xu Chengjun

"I always love to squat on the ridge of the field in Xujiatun and look at the wild roses."

In the early spring of 1977, the wind still carried the chill of the frozen earth. When it blew through the brambles, it would stir up fine dust that would hit your face, like the loose threads that splashed out when Grandma was sewing shoe soles.

Ah Xiu squatted down next to me, her braids sticky with wheat straw, her fingertips hovering half an inch from the thorns, gently counting the newly sprouted buds.

"Thirteen now." Her voice was soft and moist with morning dew. I leaned closer to look. The reddish-brown brambles were covered with a bluish-white frost, but the new shoots were green and vibrant, their tips melting some of the thin frost, timid yet unwilling to retreat back into the quilt.

When Brother Zhu emerged from behind the haystack, I saw Ah Xiu's braid tremble. His trouser legs were covered in mud, and he was clutching half a piece of withered hay, drawing crooked circles on the ground.

"After Qingming Festival, the team should apply fertilizer." Brother Zhu's voice was rougher than the wind, and the wheat straw poked small holes in the mud. "I'll talk to the team leader and ask him to give me a job closer to your land." Ah Xiu didn't say anything, but the tips of her ears turned red, and her fingers quickly counted to the fourteenth bud.

I know what they're talking about. Everyone in the team is saying that Brother Zhu is going to ask a matchmaker to go to A-Xiu's house. On the way home from work, Brother Zhu always follows behind A-Xiu. When he sees that her willow basket isn't full of dried sweet potatoes, he secretly adds a few bunches of sweet potato vines from his own basket to hers when she's looking down and pulling at her trousers.

The March winds had just warmed up a bit when the team's loudspeaker blared, announcing that the county was building a reservoir and needed to recruit laborers to help. Brother Zhu signed up. That day, he squatted by the wild rose bushes, his back to the sun, his shadow stretched long and tangled in the brambles.

Ah Xiu handed him a cloth bag containing a pair of cloth shoes. I had seen her make these shoes before; she had stayed up for three nights under the oil lamp, the stitches so fine they looked like stars scattered on the cloth. "Seven layers of cloth, they won't hurt your feet when walking on mountain paths." Her voice trembled slightly, her hands clutching the hem of her clothes, her knuckles white.

Zhu Ge clutched the shoe, his fingertips tracing the stitches on the surface, remaining silent for a long time. As the moon rose, he suddenly reached out and gently touched Ah Xiu's braid, but pulled back as if pricked by a thorn. "I'll be back in six months at most," he said, pointing to the wild roses. "Look at these buds; they should be blooming by the time I return."

Ah Xiu nodded, the straw at the end of her braid swaying in the wind, as if echoing her.

The next day, as the truck started moving, Ah Xiu and I stood under the old elm tree. Yellow dust was kicked up by the wheels, blurring my vision. I saw Ah Xiu's hands clenched tightly, her nails digging into her palms. The wild rose bushes swayed in the wind, and the new buds seemed to tremble along with them. Suddenly, she squatted down to count the buds. When she reached the thirty-second one, tears fell into the mud, creating a small eddy that was quickly absorbed by the wind.

One late spring evening, the team leader walked towards Ah Xiu's house with a letter in his hand, his steps heavy as if filled with lead. I squatted by the wild rose bushes and saw Ah Xiu come out of the house. The sunlight fell on her face, making her as white as paper. The team leader handed her the letter, and her hand trembled as soon as it touched the paper. The paper fluttered to the ground, and I recognized the words on it—"Sacrificed in the line of duty," "Martyr."

Ah Xiu squatted down to pick up the letter, her fingertips gripping the edge of the paper, and she didn't stand up for a long time. The wind blew through the brambles, the thorns scratching her trouser legs, but she didn't flinch. She just squatted there until dusk washed over the ridge of the field. The new shoots of wild roses had grown to half an inch long, wrapped in tender red skin.

During the wheat harvest, Ah Xiu went to the fields to cut wheat as usual. The sickle swung swiftly in her hand, cutting the wheat stalks cleanly. Sweat streamed down her forehead and into her eyes, which she wiped with her sleeve and continued cutting. The team leader told her to rest, but she shook her head: "Brother Zhu said the wheat harvest can't be delayed." The wind blew through the wheat fields, rustling like Brother Zhu's laughter. The wild roses had already bloomed, their pink and white petals, adorned with wheat awns, swaying gently in the wind. When Ah Xiu passed by, she would always reach out and touch the petals, her fingertips soft, as if afraid of hurting them.

The following spring, Ah Xiu was to marry into a neighboring village. The man was a carpenter, a man of few words. On the day he came to fetch her, he stood under the old elm tree at the village entrance, clutching a wooden box containing a hair clip for Ah Xiu.

Ah Xiu wasn't wearing a red jacket, but a faded blue cotton blouse, and a wild rose pinned to her hair, which she had picked the night before by the edge of the field. As she passed the wild rose bushes, she squatted down and counted the new buds. This time she didn't count aloud, but just gently touched the tips of the buds with her fingertips, as if saying goodbye to an old friend.

The year Ah Xiu married someone from another village, the wild roses were in full bloom. She and Brother Zhu kissed behind a thicket of brambles, but now only brambles grow wildly. People say love is short, forgetting is long, but the wild roses sprout new buds every year, burying the stories of the past in the soil. In the twilight, I seem to be Ah Xiu's shadow overlapping with the brambles, but I can't tell who is thinner.

On Qingming Festival in 1978, I squatted on the edge of the field again, watching the wild roses. The wind was the same as always, carrying the scent of frozen earth, rustling softly as it blew through the brambles. Ah Xiu had returned; she stood where she had counted the buds years before, her hair styled in a bun, adorned with a wooden hair clip made by a carpenter, carved with tiny patterns. Her hand gently stroked the brambles; last year's old thorns had turned black, but the newly sprouted branches were tender and green, with frost still clinging to the tips of the buds.

"Auntie, what are you looking at?" Erzhu, the cowherd, came over. The cow whip in his hand was wrapped with a red cloth strip, like the cotton wadding at the end of Ah Xiu's braids back then. Ah Xiu smiled, fine lines appearing at the corners of her eyes: "Looking at these buds, look how fast they grow." Erzhu pointed to the thickest bramble: "This one was here last year, it froze all winter, but it still sprouted new buds." Ah Xiu nodded, her fingertips touching the bramble. The bark had cracks from last winter's frost, but the new buds were pushing through the cracks, growing segment by segment, as if trying to break free from the suffocation of the entire winter.

The distant reservoir shimmered like a giant mirror, reflecting a bluer light onto the sky. The team leader called out as he applied fertilizer from the field ridges, his voice carried on the wind. Ah Xiu pulled a piece of brown sugar from her cloth bag and handed it to Aunt Zhang, who was passing by. Aunt Zhang took her hand, saying the carpenter had been kind to her, and that a smile had returned to her eyes. Ah Xiu listened, her hand never leaving the brambles, her fingertips gently rubbing the buds, the frost melting on her skin, cool and refreshing.

As they neared the village entrance, Ah Xiu looked back. The wild rose bushes swayed in the wind, the frost on their tips had melted, and the new buds were vibrant green, glistening in the sunlight. She took a handkerchief from her pocket, unfolded it, and inside was a freshly picked bud; its astringent scent seeped through the cloth, faint and delicate. "Take this back to show the child," she said softly. Only then did I realize she had given birth to a son; a small dimple appeared at the corner of her eye when she smiled.

As I left, I saw Ah Xiu press the handkerchief containing the new buds to her chest. The wind lifted the hem of her dress, making it sway like wild rose petals. The wild roses on the ridge of the field still stood in the wind, their green buds reaching towards the sky, growing taller and taller, section by section.

Later I realized that those trembling new buds in the wind, those petals that refused to bow their heads even after being battered by frost, and those morning dews clinging to the tips of thorns were all words that Ah Xiu hadn't spoken. The hard times will pass, just like buds that can't be frozen to death and roots that can't be damaged by drought. As long as there is hope in your heart, life will always bring new sweetness.

The wild roses have sprouted new branches; the thorns are prickly, but they cannot pierce the resilience of life. We stumble and struggle through time, pricked by stones and swept away by undercurrents, but ultimately we find light in the darkness and encounter opportunities when we are caught in a dilemma. Just like the snow in Lao She's writing, its coldness conceals gentleness.

Even now, I still love to squat on the edge of the field and look at the wild roses.

Every early spring, a woman with her hair in a bun returns, accompanied by a child with bright, smiling eyes, squatting by the brambles counting the new buds. The child's little hands clutch the tender green shoots, sap dripping from between their fingers. Ah Xiu smiles beside her, sunlight falling warmly into the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, like the light on wild rose petals. The wind rustles through the brambles, carrying a soft, whispering sound—the days speaking, telling of those who have gone and those who remain, of the hopes hidden in the new buds, year after year, life goes on and on.

As twilight blankets the fields, I often think: perhaps life is like a wild rose bush, with thorns as trials, new buds as crossings, and the earth, silent, planting all the answers in the growth of each passing year.

　I had something to do this afternoon, so I posted this early. This chapter is just my current level; if you like it, I'll write more later when I have the chance; if not, I won't embarrass myself. Just get the gist of it. I also wish everyone can see the light after struggling through life; I don't ask for universal salvation, but only for fulfilling my own heart's desires.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)