grandfather

Every time this time of year comes, I feel a pang of sadness. Coming to this place always feels like a purification of the soul. A small hill, a small tombstone, bearing the weight of remembrance and expressing sorrow. Here, my restless heart can find peace; the silence is so profound I can hear my own breathing, so profound I can hear the call of my own soul.

This is the fifth year. Time flies. July 13, 2003—I will never forget this day. I lost a loved one. From that day on, my life changed. What he gave me, I never felt, but these subtle changes have subtly altered me.
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I didn't understand him, I really didn't understand him at all. Until that day, I had never truly spoken to him. All I ever saw was him, hunched over his table, creating. I didn't know what he was writing; I couldn't enter his world, yet he was always beside me. The only time we were close was when we had a late-night dinner together. He loved to drink; every night he'd have a little wine and some snacks before bed, and that time I was fortunate enough to be his drinking buddy: late at night, we could hear the train whistles outside the window. As I grew older, we saw each other less and less, but he grew closer and closer to me. That day, I received his teachings for the first time, and he cried. Tears streamed clearly down his wrinkled face. I was shocked, but I didn't understand why. It was also that time, when I received the weekly gift from him, that I couldn't help but say thank you.

Later, as I grew up, I learned about him from my parents—his hardships, his perseverance, and how they brought him great success in that era. In his heart, I was his continuation; he held high hopes for me, though he was unwilling to speak. As time went by, I increasingly longed to talk to him, to have him guide me on my path. Once, in a dream, I walked with him along a long road, with only a few streetlights sparsely lit along the way, and large trees. At that moment, I so desperately wanted to speak to him, but I couldn't utter a word. When I woke up, all that remained was regret.

He sleeps on this mountain, facing the endless fields of rapeseed flowers and the distant, rolling mountains. Every time I visit him, I receive his silent guidance. I know I cannot satisfy him now, but I will not let him down. I will climb the mountain peak he once gazed upon.