Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 201

Walls of Freedom Maryknoll Convent School (Secondary Section), Wong, Pauline – 15 T hat summer my father walked out of our house’s door and never looked back. I was six years old. It was a few days of seeing that empty chair at our dinner table when I popped the question. “We Chinese are very strong, stronger than those laowai…” my mama replied while furiously scrubbing the belly of our teapot. That teapot was a wedding present from my father. Mama loved it dearly and paid more attention to it than any fittings of the house, treating it like a pearl on her palm. She loved it dearly. “It’s what reminds me of Papa,” she once said to me. I stared at her frantic movements in silence before she sighed and put down the teapot gently. She reassured me that he went to join the army and would be back very soon. I wasn’t sure. There was an edge to her voice. I wanted to ask more, but one death glare from those obsidian eyes and I dropped the topic. Our family had few to our possessions. We were quite poor. Everyone was poor. Everyone but the corrupted government officials that only smoke opium all day. They lay their backs on the hard-wooden beds, one hand holding the long pipe to their mouths, another holding a Dragon Li to their chests. Mama loathed them. I envied their children. They carried around their guoguo when they went out onto the streets, their chirping filling hustling streets. My only toy was my bamboo-dragonfly. Made of dark oak wood, the wings were a handsome shade of brown as it gleamed in the sunlight. Despite not being the toy I could wave around and catch somebody’s eye, I was proud of it. My father bought it off the streets for three dollars when I was five. Ever since, it had been my companion when my parents were busy with their mundane work of fishing and sewing, I would allow the porous tissue to slide between my palms, before releasing it as it rose higher and higher into the air, gliding along the winnowing wind before my very eyes, piloting into the binding rays of the sun, before dropping onto the ground meters away. Every day I would bring my dragonfly with me, going to wherever it took me, exploring the city, delving into narrow alleys, climbing onto rooftops. Time passed, the sun hid herself behind the horizontal line, and the chants of my mother calling me home echoed through the streets, the alleys, the rooftops. Every day was the same, until that night when I met mama’s solemn face as she sat at the dinner table. The usual Lion's Head Meatball and rice was served, and with a slight nod I slipped into my regular seat, a sideway glance at the empty chair where my father usually sat. Mama must have caught my eye. “He’s not coming back,” she whispered. “Wha?” “Bombed up by a canon, neighbor Lee told me earlier. Hers was gone too…” she drifted off, her fists clenched tight. She took a deep breath, slamming down her chopsticks. “Those DAMN laowais.” With that, she pushed herself away from the table and left the room. I stayed at my seat, eyeing at the empty chairs around me, frozen. I was still confused about what had happened. The sun shone brightly as usual the next day, contrasting the darkness that hovered over the village. In just one night family members had been lost, tears had been shed and life moved on despite the lingering shadows under red watery eyes. Life could not wait.