Fourteen years since we last spoke.
Your face is still distinct in the photos I revisit, your hair still black.
Time has made our status quo quotidian and each Mother's Day seem a little less stormy.
I cycle through the set scenes we have.
The walk-up in Dalian, where you
时政
(
twitter.com
)
Fourteen years since we last spoke.
Your face is still distinct in the photos I revisit, your hair still black.
Time has made our status quo quotidian and each Mother's Day seem a little less stormy.
I cycle through the set scenes we have.
The walk-up in Dalian, where you completed your first book, only for me to destroy the floppy disks. You rewrote without reproach.
The flat in Beijing, where you sat up all night to finish my Lego, Air Tech Claw Rig, 1992, because I could not forgive you for leaving. By morning your eyes were bloodshot.
Our earthworm site in the Sea, where you sat and watched as Ba dug.
The lily pond in Beidaihe, where we lapped around with Laolao, and marched as we sang.
Then falling into you, after a homesick month and eighty-seven unanswered emails at boarding school.
Your world stills and mine moves.
Each day of your absence adds to the weight of iniquity.
What you have endured has surpassed 黑眉爷, and is catching up to 白眉爷, who each walked their own long march to exoneration.
Let the world have its capricious judgements.
As you told me: as long as I know the truth, it is ok.
点击图片查看原图
