In all his years wandering, Wang Daquan often wrote home. Grandma's legs were weak, her eyesight poor—she reli…
In all his years wandering, Wang Daquan often wrote home. Grandma's legs were weak, her eyesight poor—she relied on neighbors to read his letters.
Occasionally, a reply would reach Wang Daquan. Opening it, he'd find only Grandma's ramblings—eat more, wear more.
Grandma said she knew Daquan was a good boy, capable, diligent, and would take care of himself.
With each letter came a small parcel containing Grandma's buns. Wang Daquan had written repeatedly that the journey was long, and the buns arrived hard and inedible. Yet, Grandma would steam fresh ones each time to send to her farthest child.
Wang Daquan had no choice but to throw the rock-hard buns away. After all, south of the river was a land of plenty—what delicacies couldn't he find?
Until the day an urgent letter arrived.
Wang Daquan never knew that shortly after he left home, Grandma had fallen and injured her leg, confined to bed for months.
Were it not for an aunt's care, Grandma might have starved.
It was an ordinary night. Grandma couldn't sleep, her back burning with pain. Tossing and turning, she thought of her child.
Finally, she decided to get up and steam a batch of buns before dawn. Leaning on furniture, she shuffled out of her room. In the dim light, the threshold was invisible.
What shattered along with the pots and bowls was Grandma's frail body, and her final thoughts of worry and care.
Wang Daquan was filled with regret. Why had he thrown away those buns?
He should have been more understanding, written more letters, sent more fresh things home. But he hadn't. He had simply journeyed on, discarding Grandma's buns.
Now, year after year, the moon waxes and wanes. The grandma who steamed buns for him has long since turned into moonlight, waiting for her child to scoop them up.
He knows now that every moon-bun he eats is both Grandma's care for him and his own debt to her.