The day Wang Daquan decided to leave home, Grandma's chronic headaches were acting up terribly. Many years ha…
The day Wang Daquan decided to leave home, Grandma's chronic headaches were acting up terribly.
Many years had passed. Wang Daquan had grown into a fine young man. Such talent naturally chafed against the confines of his impoverished hometown.
Grandma lay slumped on the bed, dizzy and faint, yet she clung to Wang Daquan's hand, her plea almost a whisper.
"Just wait... let me steam a tray of buns for you."
For the first time in all these years, Wang Daquan stayed to watch Grandma make the buns.
The milled wheat flour needed sifting again—the wind was strong, and sand got in too easily. She mixed it slowly with clear well water, then pinched off a piece of old dough from the jar to use as starter, kneading it all together.
The dough was left to rise under a breathable bamboo cover. She took a piece of fat from the house, chopped it finely, and set it outside to dry in the wind.
Grandma's mouth didn't rest either. "Remember to eat on time, eat whatever you want." "Remember to dress warmly. If you need anything, write home." "Don't stir up trouble outside. If something looks wrong, just run"...
Bits and pieces, murmured over and over. The dough rose; the fat dried halfway.
Panting with effort, Grandma kneaded the dough while directing Wang Daquan to arrange the buns in the steamer.
Sweat the size of beans pattered onto the board. For the first time, Wang Daquan realized: Grandma had aged.
The towering figure from his memory now only reached his chest. Her face had grown gaunt, no longer what it once was.
Grandma stacked firewood in the stove, then scattered the chopped fat over it. She added water, lit the fire, and started the stove. The fat crackled in the flames. The scent of wheat and meat mingled in the air, and steam clouded Grandma's eyes.
"Good child... remember to think of your grandma."