Heart Wrenching Love Stories: Heartfelt Farewell to Aunt
I never believed in the idea that people could have a psychic connection. But during the days after she left, I was constantly on edge, unable to calm my nerves. I called home again and again, asking if anything had happened, until finally, my mother couldn’t hold back any longer and said, “Your aunt is gone…”
“Gone?” I was momentarily confused and asked, “Where did she go? You need to find her quickly!”
My mother started crying, and I felt my heart plunge into an abyss. “Some kids were bullying her, and she chased them to the river. They managed to trip her into the water. It was during the flood season, and she never came back up…”
I rushed home, exhausted from the long journey. During that time, my father called to tell me that there was no need to return because she had already been buried. For the first time, I lost my temper with my parents. “She was my aunt! We grew up together! How could you bury her without telling me? That’s just too much.” I couldn’t stop crying on the phone. I couldn’t forgive them for not informing me before she was gone, I really couldn’t.
Finally, I made it home and stood before her grave. It was a freshly mounded pile of yellow earth, with a few pieces of yellow paper held down by clods of dirt. I stood there silently. It was early spring, and small dandelions were blooming near her new grave. Her name was Yingzi, and in ten days, she would have turned 39.
I understood now why I had been so anxious these past few days; it must have been because she didn’t want to leave without seeing me one last time. I knelt on the ground, burning paper money for her, and my tears started falling uncontrollably again. I said, “You never told me… do you hate me?”
I was five years younger than her. When I was young, my parents were busy with work and sent me to live with my grandmother in the countryside. My little aunt became my best companion. She watched over me, cutting paper flowers and folding paper boats for me. She was very skillful, making little skirts for the dolls my parents brought from the city, crocheting them with yarn, and sewing clothes from leftover fabric. My little aunt had a bright smile, with two deep dimples on her cheeks. Everyone said I looked like her, but I tilted my head and thought she was much prettier.
I was a naughty child, breaking a whole basket of my grandmother’s farm eggs just to make eggshell dolls. When Grandma came to punish me, my little aunt quickly took the blame: “I broke them when I moved the basket.” The broom came down on her instead. She didn’t cry out loud, just silently shed tears. My heart ached for her, but I was too scared to plead on her behalf, fearing that I would give myself away and get into trouble.
From a young age, I was a selfish child. Whenever there was something good to eat, I would quickly finish my share. But my little aunt would always save hers, and when mine was gone, she would soften and share hers with me. I always bullied her, saying, “I’m younger than you, and you’re the aunt!” And whenever I said that, she would give me more of whatever she had, be it a mooncake or candy. After all, she was my aunt.
My little aunt grew more and more beautiful, gentle like a stream, smiling softly at everyone. She would sit quietly to the side, not like me, always loud and boisterous.
That summer, I was 12, and she was 17.
My little aunt had just graduated from middle school and was accepted into the best high school in the city. I went back to the countryside for the summer vacation.
It was a truly happy summer. The river was so clear it looked like a mirror. When my little aunt and I went to the river to wash clothes, the village women would say, “Look, Lingling is growing up to look just like Yingzi.” My little aunt would smile, and I would pout, “No way, my aunt is much prettier!”
She wore her hair in two braids, dressed in a floral blouse and jeans that my mom no longer wore. Tall and simple, she was like a proud dandelion blooming in the fields.
At the foot of the mountain, there was a forest with all kinds of wildflowers, which I loved. When Grandma came back from working in the fields, she would often bring a bunch of flowers to place in a little vase on the porch, where they would bloom for a long time.
One day, my little aunt went to the fields with Grandma to plant cabbages. I took a long nap and woke up with an idea, rushing to the forest to pick flowers.
There weren’t many flowers near the edge of the forest, so I ventured deeper. The unknown wildflowers in the forest drew me further in until suddenly, I heard a noise behind me. Even now, thinking about it gives me chills. I ran as fast as I could, the sound of footsteps and heavy breathing following me closely. I heard my little aunt calling my name, and I veered off onto a small side path. The person chasing me stopped.
I ran out of the forest and collapsed on the dirt road, breathless. The forest behind me was silent, and I didn’t see my little aunt come out. Someone passing by asked why I wasn’t heading home, and I said I liked it there. I don’t know why, but I didn’t dare mention that my little aunt was in the forest and that something might have happened. At 12, I was too scared to speak out about what might have been happening, whether out of fear or selfishness. I still don’t understand why I didn’t cry for help. The wind was loud in the forest, and I was never sure if I actually heard my little aunt calling for help.
As dusk approached, I finally saw my little aunt emerge from the forest, her hair disheveled, her blouse torn, and scratches covering her arms. She glared at me and said, “What happened today, no one can ever know. If you tell anyone, I won’t live.”
I nodded vigorously, over and over, until I started crying. I didn’t fully understand what had happened, but I knew it must have been something terrible.
Before we reached home, Grandma, coming from another path, spotted me and scolded, “Where have you been, making us search for you everywhere?” Then she saw my little aunt behind me. My aunt quickly told Grandma she had slipped while looking for me. Grandma scolded her for ruining another good blouse.
That night, sharing the same bed, my little aunt cried.
Three days after the incident, I called my father and told him I wanted to learn piano, asking him to take me back home.
I fled quickly, and on the day I left, my little aunt didn’t come out to see me off.
When the high school term started, my little aunt came to the city, but not to attend school. She was there to see a doctor. Grandma wiped her tears with her sleeve, saying, “I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She spends all day sitting by the roadside near the forest, laughing and crying. When she’s normal, she’s just like everyone else…”
At dinner, when my mom gave her some food, she passed it to me. When I tried to give it back, she suddenly flipped out, smashing her bowl and crying, “You’re all bullying me! I won’t eat it, the food is poisoned…”
Grandma tried to pull her away, but she shoved Grandma off. Grandma, exasperated, slapped her across the face. Five clear fingerprints immediately appeared on her pale cheek.
The visit to the mental hospital revealed that she might have suffered some severe emotional trauma, and to cure her, we needed to find the root cause. But no one knew what that root cause was, except for me.
Those days, I had nightmares every night. I remembered her fiercely telling me that if I told anyone what happened in the forest, she wouldn’t live. I was also afraid that Grandma and my father would blame me for disobeying their warnings and wandering into the forest alone.
I stayed silent, playing deaf and dumb.
My little aunt went mad. She wandered around the village daily, either being chased by a group of kids or chasing them herself.
Occasionally, she would have quiet moments, sitting peacefully in the sun while Grandma combed her hair and washed her face. She was still as beautiful as ever. We gradually became numb to her madness. When we visited Grandma, she would be gone, and during meals, Grandma wouldn’t let us find her, saying, “If she doesn’t come back, we can have a peaceful meal.”
We all numbed ourselves, seeing her as a burden. Grandma called her a debt-collector ghost.
But she still cared about me. Whenever I returned, she would quickly run out, returning with a handful of wildflowers for me. Once, she somehow managed to find a wild duck egg and handed it to me, saying, “It’s tasty.”
Another time, just as we were about to leave, she hurried over, her arms full of dandelions. In spring, we called them 婆婆丁 and ate them with sauce. She pounded on the car door, calling my name. When the door opened, she dumped the dirt-covered dandelions onto the car’s steps. Grandma scolded her, hitting her, saying she was mad again and had dirtied my father’s car. She cried, clutching her head, and I cried along with her. The car slowly started moving, farther and farther away, and she became a small black dot in the distance, so tiny…
I went to college and studied psychology. I knew that
if I had shouted for help then, things might have turned out differently. I also knew that if I had revealed the root cause of her illness, doctors could have provided proper treatment, and maybe she wouldn’t have gone so mad. But I did nothing, watching helplessly as she sank deeper into the abyss, unable to reach out and pull her back.
During the last two summers before I graduated, I returned to my grandmother’s house to stay with her. I talked to her, helped her comb her hair, washed her face, and changed her clothes. The neighbors all said I was a good kid, but only I knew that I was seeking some comfort for my conscience, even just a little. Deep down, I also hoped to wake her up, to untie the knot in her heart.
She would say, “Butterflies are so annoying, all colorful and flashy.” She also said, “I’m a tiger, I can eat people in one bite.” She would eat dandelion flowers, covering herself with the little seeds from the dandelion umbrellas.
Sometimes, she would look at me with unfamiliar eyes and say, “Are you me?” Then she would point to a child running down the road and say, “Look, that’s my son…”
When she was calm, I desperately wanted to hug her. She was no longer the beautiful girl who used to smile shyly and gracefully at people. She ran outside in all kinds of weather, her face now red and black, her body thin as a skeleton, her long hair finally chopped messily by Grandma. Her gaze was vacant. When she wasn’t running, she would stare at the sky for a long, long time.
When I got married, she was 32. We were all eating inside, and she stood in the yard, watching us through the window. My heart ached sharply at that moment.
What could I possibly trade to give her back her youth and happiness?
I always thought that after a few more years, I would bring her to live with me, talk to her, take her to see movies, and we would grow old together…
But she didn’t give me that chance. She left so resolutely. They said she wasn’t found until three days after she drowned, her body so bloated that no clothes would fit…
That day, after returning home from her grave, I finally told them about what had happened twenty years ago. I said, “She suffered on my behalf. It was my fault…”
That night, I dreamt of a field filled with blooming dandelions. She was wearing a crown made of dandelions, smiling as she walked toward me. She said, “Lingling, I’m here to say goodbye!”
Tears woke me up. The moon was shining brightly outside, and my heart hurt so much, so much.
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
