I always thought that I was a person who was indifferent to kinship, and even thought that blood relationship was a way to maintain the relationship. This work changed my opinion, and aroused a kind of strange and dense tenderness. It turned out that I missed her so much.
To be honest, I don’t have a clear impression of my great-grandmother, my grandpa’s mother. She died when I was 8 years old, she is 108 years old at the time, very long, but I can’t fathom her if she so happy, in the last years of her life, she seldom leaving the three old small yard, rarely to see other people, other than the grandma and grandpa seldom walk, even little sleep, little eat, rarely speak.
Perhaps human aging is a process of approaching a tree, skin imitating bark, body and mind approaching stillness, approaching the land.
I heard that when I was just born, she used to hold me in her arms. At the age of 8, I didn’t trust her deadwood arms, which were too thin. In my few impression, she always sat on the stairs in the sun, behind the door is busy busy outside the adults and children playing, the kitchen between the tile- roofed house and the door, the waiter like a statue of Buddha around her, although it is her birthday. Perhaps out of the noisy and disorderly escape, I sat with her in the sun, a hand holding her garment corner, that is the old man’s body can only see the cloth, washed thin, brittle cotton, if rubbed, fragile cotton yarn will be slightly heating, and the sun on the skin feel very similar. Sometimes I will look up to her face, the original wrinkles can be so deep in a person’s body, in the loss of elasticity slightly stiff skin, the shadow becomes very light, it seems that you can reach out to erase, leaving only those deep ravines. I don’t remember if I could talk, maybe I did, but now I can’t imagine what I could talk about.
That’s all I remember. She was the most impressive thing I remember about growing old when I was young. When I died, I didn’t go to the funeral, I didn’t say goodbye, I didn’t grieve too much.
Have you touched a rose petal? Want to use fingers to touch, it will be like a flannelette, with stomach friction time is long, evaporation, water will leave traces slightly yellowish, wait until it is completely dry, and petals together, became stubborn and do not eliminate, the action of touching and time setting in the dry flower, time together with the behavior led to the transformation, bright to aging, the passage of water to the dry, happened to meet my impression of too grandma perceptual combined. , this kind of behavior is also a reaction inside a long time to eliminate the gaps in my heart and fuzzy, stroke aroused a strange and polybasic tenderness, ten years, I did not say goodbye to her at heart, don’t care, I think I am indifference is not originated from hard but due to weak, however, touch for my yearning, also let me down.
Burning is a ritual that exists in a wide variety of religions and customs. Things that disappear in flames come to the hands of those who have passed away. People love tangible things. Funeral items always seem to be money, houses, cars… Even consolation has the color of consumer society, maybe people just lack the means to know how to send invisible love. I left the touch on the petals and lit the dried petals at the end of the work. The timeliness and materiality disappeared, completing the closed loop of the work — the touch was sent to her by the flame.
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