My mom called my eldest sister and asked her, "Is AA crazy?" She asked through tears, and only then did I realize it wasn't a joke. My eldest sister kept comforting her, telling her to relax, that it wasn't true. What had I done to make her think I was mentally ill? It certainly wasn't that my first stop after returning to my hometown was my grandmother's grave—she knew best the bond between us. But the things I did next, in her eyes, became increasingly outrageous, leading to her worry.
After paying respects at my grandmother's grave, I returned to the old house where they now live, hoping to find a small wooden box my grandmother had left behind. But the door was locked, so I couldn't get in. I went to the vegetable garden instead and, under the bamboo fence, found a clay pot. I recognized it as my grandmother's, and since I've been increasingly interested in pottery lately, I washed it at a neighbor's house and happily carried it to my uncle's place in Qiujin, then straight back to the county town, where I placed it in my residence.
The next day, I walked alone for over four hours in heavy wind and rain to Raojia Village, and returned carrying a basket of picked-up items. She became even more convinced I was crazy—who in their right mind would walk so far in such weather to bring back useless things? The more she talked, the more worried she became, her tears flowing even harder. To verify her suspicion, she even asked around about my mental state, reaching out to people as far away as Yunnan, but never asked me directly. The next morning, she came to my place, glanced at the "junk" I had washed clean, sat across from me at the dining table for a long time, staring at me in silence, her expression growing heavier. She probably went to cry in front of my eldest sister again.
When Brother Long told me about this, he couldn't stop laughing, while I was caught between laughter and tears. After meeting at my eldest sister's place, I finally told her directly, "My dear mom, these things aren't junk; they're old artifacts that you can't even buy if you wanted to." The clay pot I found under the bamboo fence—my uncle said it was used by my grandmother to store oil. I stared at it in my place for a whole day, gradually forming a vague impression, and finally clearly remembered that we used it to hold cold boiled water. In summer, when thirsty, I would impatiently lift it and gulp directly from it. I don't know which year it was discarded in the vegetable garden, but now I've placed four sunflowers in it. There's a small clay pot missing an ear-shaped handle—my mom said it was used to hold salt in Raojia Village. There's also a rice measure and a long-handled small water scoop. These are all objects from our past lives. Seeing them, I recall many forgotten memories. And those memories, I plan to write them all down.
I pulled out a photo from my phone to show my mom—it was a picture of me placing a bunch of daisies in that broken clay pot—to prove once again that what I picked up wasn't junk, and that I wouldn't easily go crazy. Only then did she truly believe me and stop crying. The tears she sheds for me are always heavy. I've also shed tears for her, but they were clearly perfunctory and heartless.
I clearly remember a sunny day when we still lived in Raojia Village. For some reason, he suddenly started beating my mom again, punching and kicking her, and she lay on the ground crying loudly. We kids stood by, too scared to move, only knowing how to cry along. They were the ones crying; I didn't cry, nor was I sad. I was completely absorbed in a small toy in my hand, oblivious to the cacophony of life's symphony that often played out before me. Suddenly, a good friend of mine passed by the door, and I heard her say to her companion, "Look, her dad is beating her mom, and her sisters and brother are all crying, but she's not. She's so heartless." I immediately blushed, feeling deeply hurt in my pride. To make her take back her wrong words, I didn't run out to argue with her; instead, I hypocritically burst into loud sobs, and as soon as they walked away, I stopped crying and resumed my unfinished task.
Every time I think of this, I blame myself: why wasn't I brave enough then to reach out and pull my mom up, and run with her toward Grandma's house? I owe her a lot, so I always want to do something to make up for it. I asked her if she wanted to go to Raojia Village—we could call a car and go together, or somewhere else—but she shook her head and said she didn't want to. There are too many bad memories there. But to the villagers, my mom is a particularly respectable daughter-in-law of the Rao family. "Your mom is a good person," they all tell me.
My grandmother was paralyzed for three years, unable to walk or even speak, and was often confused, like a toddler with an IQ of two or three, frequently throwing tantrums. She lived with our family year-round, so the burden of caring for her fell entirely on my mom, while the other families provided financial support. Due to long-term bed rest and wheelchair use, my grandmother's back developed severe bedsores, and in summer, the whole room was filled with a pungent smell. My mom had to take on even more complex and heavy nursing duties, as if she were a trained nurse. One summer vacation, I was home from school and helped take care of my grandmother. My aunt came to visit and vowed to stay overnight to relieve my mom and care for her mother for a day. But by that afternoon, she had already fled back to the county town. Another aunt also visited, and after witnessing a full day of my mom's hard work, she asked, "Do you have to do these things every day?" Of course, every day—otherwise, your mother's bedsores wouldn't be just this bad.
It wasn't until my grandmother passed away in 2008 that my mom ended those difficult years and found a new job. "Your grandmother smiled at me before she left," my mom later told me. That smile was her way of saying, "Thank you, you've worked hard."
