The fact that I have rarely mentioned my sister in my own writing perplexes me. Why do my books barely contain so much as a trace of the closest, most important female friend in my life? It may be because of my sister's innate gentleness and tranquility, and the simplicity of her personal desires. Her stories are both extremely uneventful and free of unanticipated twists and turns. None of them contain the kinds of breathtaking plots that would warrant inclusion in a book. Yet there is another possibility. My sister and I rarely left one another's side. In other words, I failed to see the forest for the trees. Perhaps my sister's heart was not as simple and gentle as her outward appearance suggested. Perhaps it was a vast and deep ocean, the depths of which were too profound for someone as slow-witted as me to penetrate.
In short, while I may not understand how to describe my sister through the language of literature, this did nothing to stop us from always remaining dear and loving friends. She always stuck by my ideas as if they were her own, and she always stood by my side without any hesitation or preconceived notions. No matter what decision I made, she always agreed with my reasons. She never even disputed them. Honestly devoted and indifferent to thoughts of fame and fortune, she inherited the better part of her personality from our father.
My sister, who is five years my elder, assumed the important duty of watching over me ever since I was young. I was a feisty little child. If I didn't sprain my ankle one day, I would tumble and scrape my arm on the next. My sister always kept a little container of ointment inside her bag; any time I hurt myself, she was there to clean my wounds. Whenever dinnertime approached, my parents would appoint her to lead a one-person search party to scour the mountains and bring me home for supper. Every so often she would come home empty-handed, and my innocent sister would have to endure a point-blank scolding from our mother. Yet she never bore a grudge against me. She still loved me dearly and took pity on me. When we left the house together, she would always play the part of my "little mother" . My sister always let me have the empty seat on the train, and she would always save the first bite of any tasty morsel for me. She would even wash my hair and clothes.
While objectively it might seem that I, Little Miss "Third Wheel" , brought my parents no shortage of trouble and worries during my childhood, I was also a source of honor and unexpected joy.
According to the stories I've been told, when I was two or three years old, I began to exhibit exceptional talent. I was vivacious, exceedingly clever and a skilled debater. Wherever I went, people would marvel in amazement. "She's a prodigy!" they would exclaim.
No matter who was nearby, at the first mention of the disciplinary measures my parents used toward me, my typically taciturn brother would become a little chatterbox. He would jabber away with glee about how his middle-aged parents were raising a daughter, and how much they pampered her. My parents were always very strict with both my siblings, and they never held back from disciplining them. With me, however, all their notions of discipline simply disintegrated like a piece of paper left out in a downpour.
My parents' pampering of their youngest daughter knew neither bounds nor reason. This shaped my independent and undisciplined disposition, my desire to do whatever I pleased and my willful yet delicate nature. The proof of this, my brother would say, was clear as day: ever since I was young, I always kept any delicious snacks to myself, making me tall and strong. According to my brother, this forced my two siblings to grow up malnourished, leading to their scrawny figures.
While my height may not have been quite up to the standard of a supermodel, considering my parents' genes and my oft-overcast home of Guizhou, I was still relatively tall. My brother's burning envy of his vertically gifted sibling was perfectly understandable. Certain images surge through my mind every time I think back to my childhood: those lush mountains, those juicy wild fruits and tender herbs, those days spent frolicking in the Xiangjiang River, the tastefully clean and quiet courtyard nestled against the mountains…
Home sweet home.
When I was five, I placed a sheet of white paper over a page of my father's handwriting. The faint light guided me as I clumsily practiced writing with my brush. While I recited Tang and Song poetry in a trembling, fragile voice, I watched gratified joy beam from my parents' eyes and radiate across their features. My father taught me Chinese characters on that small mottled blackboard.
"That's the character for porridge, 'zhou'. One 'rice' character in the middle and two crooked bows on each side."
Our home's plant nursery was filled with blooming flowers all year round. We would all sit out in the yard on summer evenings; as my father told us stories about the olden days, we would hold our breaths and silently wait for the sweet scent of the tuberose to waft over us. Even now, that delicate, refreshing aroma still lingers at the edges of my nostrils…
Yes, I would have to say that my childhood was a happy one.
As I traveled to more places and met even more people, I grew all the more grateful that I had been born in Guizhou, rather than one of those standardized "international" cities. My home may not have been thriving or wealthy, but it was rich with different features and possessed a style all of its own.
My childhood memories are steeped in the bucolic scenery of my hometown. Nature's infinite abundance imbued my young soul with a love of beauty. This unsophisticated, primeval allure penetrated my very marrow. Like flecks of tinder deep within my veins, they gradually roared aflame with each and every spark that I encountered later in my life!
