The True Spirit Remains
Shanghai American School , Ma , Allison - 16
A light breeze trickled into the room , squeezing through the tiny crack in the window that was left open by a certain absentminded dreamer . On the plain cot by the window sill , a woman of wise age raised her head lightly at the tingle of her neck , only to see the dull sky jabbed with lofty architecture . Progress ? She huffed . They promised us growth but instead the city withered . Her eyebrows furrowed at the dark memory , the folds of her wrinkled forehead manifesting itself . The pleads of the dead spirits will never be silenced . They will forever be screaming for their youth and their houses . I , too , am one of them .
She restlessly drifted back into her wistful sleep , dreaming the same dream she had for years . In this world , the sky was a beautiful ocean blue , sprinkled with feathery clouds . Dagger-like buildings like such in real life were replaced with a trail of delicate flat-topped houses , and the usual laborious touch to her stroll was swapped with a vivacious zest of juvenescence . Strung across her shoulders was a tattered army green messenger bag . The coarse strings flayed at the ends and the rusted zipper proved itself useless , yet she gripped its strap tightly all the same , tracing the bumpy texture of a patch sewn onto it .
The whines and wails from a distant memory echoed in her ears . " Ma , everyone at school are getting those cool messenger bags ! Why can ’ t I have one too ?" Her mother ’ s creased eyes lined with fatigue had drooped as she smiled faintly . " In a few days , Ting . I promise ." For the next few weeks , even hours after sun down , when Ting peeked through her door , she would watch as her mother worked by the oil lamp , her frail fingers sewing together pieces of muddy green cloth . One night , Ting could no longer hide her excitement , and she pranced out into the living room and into her mother ’ s lap , as if she were a child again . Together , the mother and daughter spent nights together , sewing a piece of their warmth and love into this messenger bag .
The embroidered patch was a birthday present a few years after the magical making of the bag . " This is you ," her mother told her , tracing her finger around the silhouette of a little girl in braids , " and this is me ," she finished , pointing to a taller figure weaved in the embellishment . Ting gazed at the small needlework in her hands in awe . She jabbed a finger at the box outlined with ornate dragon patterns that surrounded the tiny figures . " What ’ s this , Ma ?"
" This is our home , Ting . This is Shanghai ."
As Ting ran along the roads of the most contemporary part of the ancient cultured China , sounds of bicycle bells and chittering crowds all screamed the same thing : This is Shanghai ! The birds chirping on newly constructed roofs exclaimed it . The exclamations of neighbors playing cards on the side walk , the ring of the cashier bell sounded by the clerk chatting with his denizen , the clashes of dishes being scrubbed and of local dishes being cooked at famous restaurants … This is Shanghai . Nothing could stop the endless chitter about Shanghai ’ s progress and the pride it brings their mother nation .
The low tone of the horn of a steamboat rung in Ting ’ s ears . She wound up to the harbor , her sweaty hands gripping the metal rail bordering the shore . She looked down to see a glistering , disfigured reflection of herself . The rest of the river glistened with the sun , and she closed her eyes , listening to the sounds of the boats and the people and the crashing of the waves .
" Shanghai ," Ting whispered . " Shanghai is my home ."
The waters below her rippled on cue , as if recognizing the name . They began to bubble violently as if it were boiling water on a stove , then all at once , it gushed upwards and warped up to engulf Ting . She sunk , and in the