messenger belting songs and obituaries around the countryside of the deceased. It is raining as he stumbles in
with two sentences and a terse apology, and the rain shines down with its bitter laughter. I have gone beyond
crying, and into a stage of silent wreck.
It is raining as I place a pot of beef stew onto the table, allowing a few seconds of sheer reverence in
the rosy glows of the children before everybody is distributed a small portion in decorated bowls. The energy
and breath of the parents has been sucked back into them as they sit full of the contentment of love, and they
kiss. The beef has come from the market for the price of three eggs, and the grain was gathered as excess from
the day’s harvest, and the chickens in the yard are not corpses, nor are they ailing from frost. Monkeys dance in
the air as I tell the sweet stories to the children once more, amidst the strange nonexistence of peace where
nobody is, and the strangely golden sensation of laughter. I excuse myself for a minute and I stumble into the
cooking shack once more, and the walls are an even grey and there is plenty of grain and wood. I look into the
rain and there is sunlight and starlight and warmth, and I am young and smooth, beautifully impetuous, graceful
and wise. The rain seems to return the clouds and stay there, while there is a stationary picture of slow peace.
There is absolutely nothing happening but the slow hum of summer bugs and the bubbling of a content fire. I
look out of the window and onto the vast, open plains of the future, and I smile.
It is save the slow pattering outside. The children have relaxed, grinning at the memories of the last
note, the saccharine taste of the past. There are tears slowly curving around the valleys of my face that
synchronize with the slow drumming on the ceiling. In the quiet and the cold, we feel warm.
“
Nai.” Wei speaks up again, louder this time. “I liked that one. Another story. Please.”
I close my eyes and think. This time the story will be about a child, a child who is as delicate as the
stars but as strong as a cutting board, who was borne out of the beautiful everything like sunrises and warmth,
who watches over the magical sliding rain to tell its story.
This time, I don’t know the ending.
* * *