C A N' T G O H O M E A G A I N
The moment my father raised the fishing rod, the wind rose.
I was standing behind him, on the hillside, looking at his silouhette for a long time. The absolute silence of the mountains seemed to keep everything to emit a sound.
The bamboo forest started to dance with the wind, letting branches and leaves lean over and gently stroke my back. In the late autumn of the northern Hunan, the hidden aroma of osmanthus was detectable in the air, though subtle.
A sense of tenderness was spreading out slowly from the inside of my chest, and embracing me grandually, like the mist of this morning. Disappeared unexpectedly in no time, the last night’s nightmares, the desolation upon awakening, and the confusion all along the way since months.
The thick haze was not going to dissipate before hours. Only at that moment it would be possible to perceive the vastness of the water, and in the distance, the beauty and nonchalance of other mountains. Yet, it’s worth waiting.
On the way home, father was driving his car religiously, and there was still not much talk between us. All of a sudden I came to remember that he loved osmanthus the most. I rolled down the car window so that the blossom fragrance could be allowed in.
The delightful fragrance, if any. While deep in my heart, there was always this delightful scent of tenderness.