Hai Lun

Hai Lun， a member of the China Writers Association， Deputy Director of Children’s Literature Committee of Shanxi Writers Association， and a senior editor and translator， has published more than 20 works and translations. Her works won Zhao Shuli Children’s Literature Prize and Bingxin Children’s Literature Prize and were selected for “The List of Good Books in China” by China Book Review Society. The copyrights of her books have been exported to Britain and Vietnam.

This story depicts the childhood memories of an urban post-70s， narrates the growth of Xiaoqingzi’s generation， and affectionately tells the stories of her grandmothers and parents when they were young. From a child’s view， it presents the natural landscapes and real civic life of Taiyuan， a city in the north of China. Through this， it reproduces the joys and sorrows of several teachers’ families in a small courtyard. In addition， the author recalls Xiaoqingzi’s school days.

Memories of Taiyuan: A Personal Narrative

Hai Lun

Hope Publishing House

April 2020

28.00 (CNY)

I’ve never reminisced about the past as much as I do now. I miss the sunlight， the wind and rain， the locust trees， the bungalows， my grandma， and my parents in childhood. I miss the aroma of wind in summer， the joys of children， and the blue sky at dusk when Mum called me back home.

It’s three o’clock in the afternoon， my most comfortable， relaxing moment.

Both my husband and my son are asleep. The summer breezes float into the room from the balcony. The sheer curtain printed with rose petals and leaves heaves with the breeze as if a naughty kid were playing hide and seek. My one-month-old son is wrapping around my husband’s neck， and his chubby little butt is sticking up. On his young face， the fine-grained eyelashes sink， and his cherry-like mouth opens slightly. He is breathing evenly with the fluctuation of his belly. My husband is fast asleep， laying his right hand on my son’s waist. He has been tormented by a runny nose these days. I think he feels more relaxed in his sleep. On the pedestal at the door of my eldest son’s room stands a flower pot with a spider plant in it， which has accompanied us for several years. Recently， a few small white flowers bloom every few days， strewn at random and stretching quietly on the long stems. One or two stems hang down onto the tray and the pedestal. If I enter my son’s room， they will touch my legs. When I come in and out， they will touch me， just like a child attached to his parents. For this， I can’t help bending over to look into them. I’m surprised by its flowers and beauty.

I make a cup of Hainan’s spring green tea given by my friend. The variety of tea is unknown but fragrant， refreshing my mind. The spring shoots immersed in the water are full of the vitality of spring. I turn on the computer and play Joe Hisaishi’s Castle in the Sky.

It seems that I’ve been waiting for this moment for myself.

I’ve never missed what I came from as much as I do now. I miss the sunlight， the wind and rain， the locust trees， the bungalows， my grandma， and my parents in childhood. I miss the aroma of wind in summer， the joys of children， and the blue sky at dusk when Mum called me back home.

I am just the locust tree in front of my house. When I was young， it would have been a seedling， too. I remember that every spring， strings of sophora flowers bloomed on the branches. The white petals were oval， like dew drops. I drew out a stamen to absorb the pollen — it tasted slightly sweet. When I was young， I used to stand under the locust tree， looking up at it. It didn’t have big leaves， but it was elegant. I usually looked as if I were one of its leaves， dancing happily with the sunshine and the wind.

The seasons went round and round. I looked at the locust tree every year.

One day， I passed by the locust tree again. I hadn’t had a good look at it for a long time， and its branches had become lusher and thicker. The dense branches， like a big umbrella， brought shade to passers-by.

Under this locust tree， the veteran mechanic leaned against the street wall， snoozing with his eyes closed. I don’t know how long he has worked under the locust tree. But he mended my eldest son’s bicycle and pumped up the tires for my young son’s bicycle. He told me his son got married. His son lived in his house， and he and his wife rented a house themselves. Due to years of tanning， his skin is dark， and his face is deeply wrinkled. His hands are full of cracks， deep and dark. He is dressed in blue overalls all year round. When he told me these stories， he looked satisfied. The sun shone and flashed on his face through the locust tree. A sense of happiness flowed through his eyes and words.

I know he is happy.

I know the locust tree is happy， too.

And also， I know I was and am happy， both in my childhood and now.

Years have passed， and so have many things. Like that locust tree， I used to have such verdant， sweet days. If you ask me， “What was your childhood like?” I will say I remember the pure blue night sky and the pure white sophora flowers on the green trees. I remember the morning glories and wishbone bushes blooming in patches， and the green bristlegrass swaying on the hillside of the military camp. I remember my young mother returned from class in her beautiful cotton-padded jacket， and her figure preparing lessons in the light at the window when I woke up at midnight.