A Beautiful Love Stories: I Still Remember
Her body remembers those habits—she has become like a baby.
The illness torments her; she forgets how many sons she has but can still name them. In the morning, he watches over her as she takes her medicine, promising to take it again at noon and in the evening. But as soon as he turns around, she takes all the medicine for the day at once. So, he has to give her the medication one dose at a time, hiding the rest.
She knows she’s become confused and is very pessimistic, unable even to tell the difference between turning on the faucet and turning off the TV. The family doesn’t let her handle fire or gas, but she’s in the habit of checking the kitchen every night to make sure the coal stoves are properly extinguished.
Extinguishing fires has been her lifelong duty. Now, all she needs to do is turn the gas and electric switches on or off, but she still calls it “extinguishing the fire.” Every time, she tries the switches multiple times, getting so confused that she gets up again in the middle of the night to check the kitchen. The family ends up locking the kitchen, which she doesn’t like, so she searches for the key. Helpless, he unlocks it and accompanies her for another inspection.
Every night, they share a box of yogurt. She always takes it out of the fridge, inserts the straw, and then they share it. Recently, there was only one box left, and they kept insisting the other have it. Since there was no straw, she found a small spoon, opened the box, and fed him as if he were a child. Was it that she had never forgotten her lifelong care for him, or did she momentarily mistake what to do, thinking she should feed him instead of handing him the box?
At night, they sit on the sofa watching TV; she doesn’t watch but instead picks the white hairs off his dark sweater, gathering them into a small ball. She asks him where to throw it away, and he gives her a piece of white paper. She carefully wraps the hairs up, as tightly as a Japanese pastry, and hands it to him, watching as he throws it into the wastebasket, finally feeling relieved.
She remembers that she has to keep giving.
His sister is a doctor, calling frequently from Hubei to check on her condition, crying about how she could never repay her sister-in-law (whom she calls “Qin Jie”) for all her kindness. They were so poor growing up that she always wore her sister-in-law’s old clothes. He recalls these memories with her, but she can’t tell if it’s about facts or feelings, responding, “Were the clothes too tight?” Joy and sorrow seem distant to her now; she’s entered a Buddhist state of mind.
Once, she casually pulled out a page from a newspaper and looked at it carefully. She wanted to speak but couldn’t. It seemed she couldn’t find his work on the page and was puzzled. Seeing her struggle with words, he felt even more heartbroken. He patted her back, saying, “No need to talk, no need to look, let’s go to sleep early. You’re exhausted from a whole day of IV treatment.” She obediently let him lead her to the bedroom. He realized she had forgotten the bedpan, a task she always took care of herself and wouldn’t let even the maid touch.
Two years ago, he fell ill, like a building that survived an earthquake, still standing and even able to walk on his own. People praised his good health, saying he didn’t seem like an 86-year-old man. But in reality, his body was damaged, and with severe insomnia, he was deeply pessimistic, unable to adjust to a life without work or purpose, feeling that longevity was just an extension of a prison sentence.
Recently, as her condition worsened, he had to take care of her. She had taken care of him all her life, raised three children, and never stopped giving. Now it was his turn to care for her. He lived for her—she was like the Virgin Mary, and he was willing to sacrifice everything to protect her. He stayed by her side, never leaving, wanting to cry but also feeling the joy of repaying her. But even though they relied on each other, they could no longer communicate. She was hard of hearing and often mentally unclear, forgetting everything she had just said. Her mind had been wiped clean like a blank sheet of paper, while his mind was painted with a dreadful darkness.
The doctors diagnosed her with brain atrophy and added diabetes to her list of ailments. He had to give her a sugar-lowering pill with every meal. One time, when their son Yiding came home for a meal, Yiding gave her the pill during dinner. She asked for another one to give to him, mistaking the medication for the candies they used to share as children.
She remembers how to wait.
The spring sunlight was bright and warm, and today Yiding and his wife drove to take them and Kexu to visit a garden, hoping to stimulate her mind. They went to the familiar Zhongshan Park, but there was nowhere to park—too many cars had taken over all the streets and the front and back gates of the scenic spots. They had to go to the old neighborhood at Shichahai, park in an alley, and walk to show her the remnants of the past and the new changes of today.
In the newly renovated dining hall of the old roast meat shop, some foreigners were using the time while waiting for their food to write postcards featuring images of the Yuanmingyuan ruins to their friends. She looked at this but didn’t react. When they pointed out the gate of their old home, she said she didn’t want to go in. She had completely erased the memories of urging coal delivery, fetching ashes, buying vegetables, and buying sugar from her mind. The old nest where she had lived for 20 years seemed unrelated to her, as if she had never known it.
At home, she and he always ate together, but if he was busy, she would start eating by herself. Once, he had a fever in the evening and went to the hospital immediately. It was dinnertime, so they told her to eat first. She quickly finished her meal but continued to sit at the table, waiting for him to come home and eat.
Occasionally, when he returned late, the winter afternoon had already turned dark by 5 o’clock. When he walked in, the living room was dark, the dining room was dark, the lights were off, and she was nowhere to be seen. Then he would spot her silhouette at the bedroom balcony window, looking down at the road, waiting for him to return.
One time, she was fiddling with her clothes in bed. When he tried to help, she refused—turns out she had wet her clothes but didn’t want anyone else’s assistance. She reluctantly allowed the maid to help her bathe. He always took his bath at night before bed; she’d be asleep but would get up and go to the bathroom to help him scrub his back when she heard him bathing. When they were young, neither had ever helped the other bathe; she only bathed their three children, using a big wooden tub back then. Caring for her children gave her life meaning, leaving her without regrets. Now, with white hair and a cane, walking in the park, unfamiliar children sweetly call her “Grandma.” That word, “Grandma,” lights up a radiant life.
Sometimes, he would create small paintings or explore new designs for Chinese characters, and every time he finished one, he would pull her over to look, hoping the art would rekindle some emotional connection. She still retained some aesthetic sense, able to discern the quality of the work, but often contradicted herself.
Sometimes, just an hour later, when he asked her to look again, she would ask, “When did you paint this? I’ve never seen it before.” He could no longer find any resonance with her.
Without spiritual communication, they were still companions who guarded each other daily for 60 years. When he wrote the word “companion,” he highlighted the two people, the two mouths, the two horizontal lines, and the two small dots. These tiny dots stood out amid the thick strokes, like eyes peering into life, staring at the viewer, piercing their soul.
She leaves all the loneliness to him.
He talks to her about recent events. When he was young, he once took a fine arts history exam, and Professor Chen Zhifo gave him a score in the 90s. For sixty years, Professor Chen’s family had carefully preserved this “top score” exam paper, as well as the wedding photo he took for them and the painting of two birds perched on a camellia branch he made for them. He truly feels these are the crowning jewels of their 60-year marriage, but she remains indifferent, as if these things have nothing to do with her. She has grown too distant from the joys and sorrows of this world. He feels an endless, eternal loneliness— the loneliness of two lovers, two white-haired companions, facing each other. Loneliness, like an abandoned child, but is there anyone who would take it in?
Because he couldn’t create large paintings for a while, they moved out of his large studio to live in a building in Fangzhuang, built in the early 1990s. Although it was only about 100 square meters, its orientation and light were excellent.
Two years ago, the children renovated it again, installing new flooring, making it look brand new. Around the New Year, the flowers sent by visitors turned half of the place into a flower garden. The children kept buying new clothes for their parents, all in bright red, modern styles. She would wear
a red sweater, a red coat, and walk with her cane, tap-tap-tapping through the flowers, not knowing if this was a blessing or a curse.
He and she spent their twilight years in a cozy nest, something to be envied, but he felt it was the same fate as tigers and leopards dying in their mountain caves. She didn’t think about it, letting death come whenever it would. She didn’t reminisce, nor did she anticipate. Occasionally, he would hold her hand, as if asking when they should end this painful old age, but she would pull her hand away, not responding.
Year after year, the flowers bloom and wither. Their grandson bought a toy that mimics the chirping of wild birds, hoping it would bring the sounds of life into his grandparents’ home. But neither grandma nor grandpa was interested; they only wanted their grandchildren to be happy and to see the fruit trees they had planted bear fruit.
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
