my life as though it were over,
And I, Uncle Ping, a ghost poking about in the past.
I went through each scene.
Drew up the cast of characters who had been part of my story.
Of course, she was who I thought of most,
and still so breathtakingâeven in memory,
as though my poor heart had been tricked
into believing there was still hope.
âI began to think about what happened all those years ago,
but this time from her point of view.
I considered what life must have been like
living with her mother and sister in that damp house.
I donât think I mentioned that her father
had passed away when she was young.
I began to feel sorry for her, Wengâto forgive her even.
And it was like falling in love again, but without any pain.
âAnd in that spirit, I decided to go and visit
her old place near where we grew up.
Fifty years had passed. I put on some nice clothes
and combed my hair.
When I arrived, the house was for sale.
There was a light on inside, but when I glanced at my watch,
it was too late to knock.
So I looked instead through a keyhole.
My heart, Weng, was throwing itself against my ribs
as if trying to get into the house.
Thenâcouldnât help myself!
. . . I lightly rapped on the door.
âThe woman who opened the door was not old,
but seemed frail and done-in.
I could tell she was suspicious, but I was wearing nice clothes,
aftershave, and the Rolex Submariner
I bought in the year of the goat,
so she mistook me for someone interested
in buying her house and invites me in,
tells me sheâs moving away, needs a quick sale.
Once we were in the kitchen, where there was more light,
Guess what?
I couldnât believe it:
Same table, same dishes, same chairs. . . .
Thought I was dreaming.
âThis old woman is my belovedâs little sister!
I am not proud to admit what I did next,
but realized that in the disguise of a potential buyer,
there was a chance to finally get the truth.
So I asked if she had grown up in the house.
She said Yes.
Brothers or sisters?
She paused for a moment,
then nodded, Older sister .
She sensed my anxiety. . . .
Would I like some chrysanthemum tea?
It must have been lonely for her there, Weng,
because near the sink: one set of dishes, one bowl,
one pair of chopsticks, one glass, one teacup.
Silence has many forms, eh?
But I gritted my teeth, kept lying,
told her I was from Shanghai.
She didnât say anything, so I asked if she had ever been there.
She said once , last year with the company she worked for.
âYou never lived there?â I asked. âYou never moved
away from the house?â
âShe told me that, for one year, when she was a teenager,
They had lived somewhere else, but not Shanghai.
Then I asked if older sister lived nearby.
She considered the question, then pointed to the window,
âOlder sister is on a hillside outside the city.â
Instead of anger, Wengâinstead of desire, I felt something else,
a sort of lightness, and truly hoped she was with a devoted
husband, children too, even grandchildren,
a house full of voices like a forest in spring.
â. . . Little sister went on talking. âI donât visit
as much as I used to, but
at least she is there with our fatherâ
and our mother is out there now too.
Iâm the only one left, and so the house that was
once too small is now too big.â
It sounds silly, Wengâbut it took me a moment
to realize what she was saying.
âI can see my story has depressed you,â she said finally,
âbut the end of my sisterâs life was happyâbecause she knew what
love was like, got to taste it before she died with a boy who lived
nearby. Whereas I have lived a whole life and still donât know how
it feels.â
I wanted to speak up! Cry out! Pull the sister toward me!
Tell her: I was that boy!
But all I could do was fix my eyes
on some object in that kitchen,
with little or no
And I, Uncle Ping, a ghost poking about in the past.
I went through each scene.
Drew up the cast of characters who had been part of my story.
Of course, she was who I thought of most,
and still so breathtakingâeven in memory,
as though my poor heart had been tricked
into believing there was still hope.
âI began to think about what happened all those years ago,
but this time from her point of view.
I considered what life must have been like
living with her mother and sister in that damp house.
I donât think I mentioned that her father
had passed away when she was young.
I began to feel sorry for her, Wengâto forgive her even.
And it was like falling in love again, but without any pain.
âAnd in that spirit, I decided to go and visit
her old place near where we grew up.
Fifty years had passed. I put on some nice clothes
and combed my hair.
When I arrived, the house was for sale.
There was a light on inside, but when I glanced at my watch,
it was too late to knock.
So I looked instead through a keyhole.
My heart, Weng, was throwing itself against my ribs
as if trying to get into the house.
Thenâcouldnât help myself!
. . . I lightly rapped on the door.
âThe woman who opened the door was not old,
but seemed frail and done-in.
I could tell she was suspicious, but I was wearing nice clothes,
aftershave, and the Rolex Submariner
I bought in the year of the goat,
so she mistook me for someone interested
in buying her house and invites me in,
tells me sheâs moving away, needs a quick sale.
Once we were in the kitchen, where there was more light,
Guess what?
I couldnât believe it:
Same table, same dishes, same chairs. . . .
Thought I was dreaming.
âThis old woman is my belovedâs little sister!
I am not proud to admit what I did next,
but realized that in the disguise of a potential buyer,
there was a chance to finally get the truth.
So I asked if she had grown up in the house.
She said Yes.
Brothers or sisters?
She paused for a moment,
then nodded, Older sister .
She sensed my anxiety. . . .
Would I like some chrysanthemum tea?
It must have been lonely for her there, Weng,
because near the sink: one set of dishes, one bowl,
one pair of chopsticks, one glass, one teacup.
Silence has many forms, eh?
But I gritted my teeth, kept lying,
told her I was from Shanghai.
She didnât say anything, so I asked if she had ever been there.
She said once , last year with the company she worked for.
âYou never lived there?â I asked. âYou never moved
away from the house?â
âShe told me that, for one year, when she was a teenager,
They had lived somewhere else, but not Shanghai.
Then I asked if older sister lived nearby.
She considered the question, then pointed to the window,
âOlder sister is on a hillside outside the city.â
Instead of anger, Wengâinstead of desire, I felt something else,
a sort of lightness, and truly hoped she was with a devoted
husband, children too, even grandchildren,
a house full of voices like a forest in spring.
â. . . Little sister went on talking. âI donât visit
as much as I used to, but
at least she is there with our fatherâ
and our mother is out there now too.
Iâm the only one left, and so the house that was
once too small is now too big.â
It sounds silly, Wengâbut it took me a moment
to realize what she was saying.
âI can see my story has depressed you,â she said finally,
âbut the end of my sisterâs life was happyâbecause she knew what
love was like, got to taste it before she died with a boy who lived
nearby. Whereas I have lived a whole life and still donât know how
it feels.â
I wanted to speak up! Cry out! Pull the sister toward me!
Tell her: I was that boy!
But all I could do was fix my eyes
on some object in that kitchen,
with little or no
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