by Huina Zheng
Our mother embarks us on an odyssey back to her roots—a day and night by train, then seven hours by bus, culminating in an hour’s hike on craggy mountain trails. We reach her childhood village, now a ghost of its past: mud houses abandoned, nature’s overgrowth claiming them, their hues surrender to a somber gray-brown. Silence reigns, broken only by the occasional creak of aging timbers bending in the breeze. “Time’s still here,” my brother observes. In the kitchen, remnants of life linger in a pile of rust-streaked pots and pans. An old bamboo chair leans against the wall. Scattered across the floor lay forgotten farming tools, their wooden handles succumb to decay, metal corroded. The melancholic whistle of wind howls through shattered windows. The home stands frozen in silent stillness, devoid of vitality. No storm has ravaged here, merely the gradual exodus of life. When our mother, at 15, lured by a neighbor’s promise, to work in a big city, her parents never knew. She found herself sold to a distant village, thrust into a marriage with our father, over 1900 kilometers away in north China. Confined in a dark chamber, chains clasped her ankles, cold metal biting into her freedom. Only after birthing me, ten months later, was she allowed the scant liberty of yard work, the whole village’s eyes ever-watchful. Another year, another child—my brother’s birth brought a modicum of freedom within the village confines. Seasons dictated her toil in the fields, dawn to dusk, hands chafed, face veiled in soil’s dust. “No stories to tell,” she’d say of her past, as we inquired about her childhood, her family. Two decades later, following our father’s death, she finally escapes the village to return to her parental home. The wall’s old clock, hands eternally fixed, echoes my brother’s whisper, “Time’s still here,” while a dog barks somewhere in the distance. Our mother steps into the living room. There, by the fire, her mother, whom we met for the first time, is heating water. “Tea’s nearly ready,” she greets, her smile revealing the years in yellowed, sparse teeth. Sunbeams pierce through the small window, casting our mother’s profile in a soft glow. She settles beside the room’s sole table, flanked by two wooden beds. No walls divide this shared space. Her mother pours steaming water over Pu’er tea. The wrinkles and liver spots on her hands become prominent. The tea leaves unfurl, weaving a fragrance of earth and aged wood. Our mother’s mother joins us, lifting the hot cup, her breath gently cooling the tea, her face a map of life’s journey, etched deeply with each puff of air.
Huina Zheng, a Distinction M.A. in English Studies holder, works as a college essay coach. She’s also an editor at Bewildering Stories. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and others. Her work has received nominations twice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her husband and daughter.