Squeak... Creak... Amidst the roar of boiling water and the marketplace din, Little Letian could always pick o…
Squeak... Creak...
Amidst the roar of boiling water and the marketplace din, Little Letian could always pick out that one sound: the groan of the wooden He'le press clamping down.
Squeak... Creak...
Another bowl of noodles slid free. His mother swept her left hand beneath the press, steady and practiced, while her right tipped a ladle of sauce over the noodles. A fresh bowl was ready.
Little Letian was convinced that everyone pressed he'le noodles differently.
His father's pressing had sounded light and lively, like wood breathing.
Once, his father took him into the mountains. A breeze passed through the pine forest, and his father told him to press his ear against the trunk. The sound he heard was exactly the same as when father made noodles, soft, hollow, alive.
After his father passed away, Little Letian never once saw his mother cry.
He watched his mother, who used to be very quiet, learn to call out to customers, raising her voice to praise how fresh her sauce was, and how springy the noodles were.
Then she would reach for a bowl, swift and sure, and slide it beneath the press.
Squeak... Creak...
Little Letian knew that sound now. It wasn't wood breathing anymore, but wood crying.