Since last week, the forecast kept talking about the coming snow. As the time approached, the prospect of snow seemed to become more serious—it said that we would expect a two-to-twelve-inch snowfall, which sounded unreal.
Yesterday morning, it was cold and grey; starting from early afternoon, as the forecast had predicted, the snow began. The large yet light flakes fell from the sky, swirling, spiraling, landing gracefully on the ground, roof, and trees.
It snowed for a whole afternoon and night. When I woke up in the morning and was still lying in bed, I noticed that the room was unusually bright—not quite like the daytime’s brightness, nor as moonlight, but milder, blended with a subtle darkness, like white paint smeared onto a black canvas. The white paint was the reflection of snow.
I opened the window curtain a bit, found that the snow had stopped. Everywhere was white, including the whitish gray sky, where large flocks of clouds were hanging. I glanced at the clock: It was four am. Enchanted by this dreamlike scene, barefooted, I tiptoed to the kitchen, lit the stove to boil some water, and sat by the window—I didn’t turn on the light.
My first memory about snow dates back to thirty-three years ago. At that time, I was just a four-year-old kid. In my memory the winters then were always colder, and the snow was heavier. That day, my mother rode a bicycle with my elder brother sitting in the front, while my aunt rode another one carrying me. It was freezing; even with all the protection like gloves and scarf, my hands and cheeks were numbed by cold.
We were crossing a vast field just after a big snow. The woods, ground, and villages were all covered with white, motionless; the gray sky looked so low as if it could touch the treetops. The whole world was lifelessly silent, no wind, no birds, only us, the only living ones, heading for my grandfather’s village.
Finally, we entered the village, which was equally silent. All the houses we passed were like snow piles with some dark holes dug in them—those were windows and doors. My grandfather’s house was one of the piles; in it both my grandfather and my eldest uncle’s family were living. Like all the other older folks, my grandfather wore a black padded jacket and a pair of black snowshoes. Tall and thin, wearing a serious look and as silent as the snowy fields, he met us in his room adjacent to the kitchen. That room was so small that it could only fit one bed and one table.
To welcome us, my uncle killed a chicken for lunch. I saw him pick one hen from the shed, step on its feet so it couldn’t move; then he grabbed the hen’s head and gave it a mighty slash at its neck with a cleaver. After that, he dropped the cleaver, held up the hen with his two hands to let the blood from the cut run into the earthen bowl placed on the ground by my aunt. The blood rushing out was warm; I could see its white steam.
One or two minutes later, the blood had drained; my uncle released the hen and took away the blood bowl. The chicken jumped painfully at the beginning, but soon it could only lie on the ground still struggling. When the water started to boil in the kitchen and my aunt came to take it there for cleaning, except for one or two jerks, the hen was pretty much dead. I witnessed this murder; the yard resumed its emptiness while I stared hard at the blood stains left on the snowy ground—red against white.
Sitting at the table, I hesitated. But my aunt put one drumstick in my bowl and pushed the bowl right under my nose. The umami penetrated into my nostrils; my stomach was growling. I, as the adults had expected, eventually disarmed my defense and betrayed that hen.
My grandfather didn’t appear at the dining table.
Later on, I learnt from my mother that my grandfather was a retired chief of the village; he stuck to his principles thus people thought very highly of him. However, I couldn’t help wondering: If he was that important, why did he live in such a shabby room while my uncle and his family could occupy the large bright main house? And why didn’t he join us at lunch? The other drumstick was in my brother’s bowl; my cousins took the wings and breasts, so what did he eat?
Behind the house and near the pond grew a large date tree. In the summertime when the fruits began to ripen, my brother and cousins took a long bamboo pole to beat the branches so the dates could be shaken down: They fell like rain. We were too anxious to feast on them, never even missing the ones fell in the water. Yet every time my brother followed my cousins into the pond, my grandfather would show up. Standing under the date tree, he scolded: “No play in the water! Get out! Your mother gets only one son!” If my brother didn’t listen, he would come close to the pond, use his walking cane to try to knock my brother. My brother took a dive, escaped to an out of my grandfather’s reach place, yelling back: “Dictator!”
The pond roared with laughter.
When I grew older, my parents started a small factory. My uncles took my mother’s invitation and moved their families to the town to help with the business, as well as my grandfather—he became the watchman of the factory. Every time I went there, I could see my grandfather pacing about outside the factory’s entrance, followed by a big yellow dog named “Hui” which was adopted by my mother as my grandfather's companion. When he saw me, he stopped; a kind smile naturally arose on his weather-beaten face, though he seldom showed his affection. “Here you come!” He called happily, then searched his pocket, “These candies were brought by your mother. I saved them for you.” He held out his palm.
Hui ran to me, rubbed its head against my leg. I bent down to stroke its heavy fur, answering: “No, grandpa, I am not a little girl anymore; I don't like sweets.”
Sometimes on weekends, my grandfather came to our house as well: His tall, thin figure appeared in the lane, wearing a straw hat, a white casual shirt and black pants. He loved rolling the hems of his sleeves and pants high, in the habit of a farmer. Our neighbors who were having their breakfast outdoors saw him first and shouted: “Wow, the big man comes! To see your daughter?” My grandfather would wave his hand: “Yes, it’s weekend. Came to see them.” In his other hand were some fried dough sticks wrapped in a wax paper bag.
We heard the conversation, rushed out to greet him. My mother always complained to him that he shouldn’t buy anything for us, which was a sign of thinking oneself as a guest. My grandfather sat there rubbing his hands: “I bought them for the kids to eat.” But we knew, he indeed considered himself a guest, even in his own daughter’s house—according to his old-school opinion, only my uncles were his family; my mother, his married daughter, belonged to another family. So, in those few times he came to see her, he must bring her family a gift.
One Chinese New Year Eve Day, my parents asked me to invite my grandfather to our house for dinner, which was the most important dinner of the whole year to every Chinese family. So I headed for the factory where my grandfather was living. Personally, I felt curious: As stubborn as my grandfather was, he had never agreed to have his CNY Eve dinner elsewhere rather than in my uncles’ houses, why did my mother want to break his routine this time? Would he come?
It had snowed for a couple of days. The streets were still covered with white. I arrived at about noontime; the gate of the factory was shut. It was holiday; all the workers were gone. The snow piled on the path leading to the gate was untouched thus it was noticeably thicker when I stepped on it. The factory building stood silent; its roof and walls were heavily covered under the one-foot deep snow. Icicles, two to three feet long, were hanging from the eave. I turned around, staring at the lonesome string of my footprints, feeling awkwardly sad. It was a world of snow, nothing but ice and snow; cold and barren, and my grandfather was living in it alone, with a dog.
Instead of knocking on the gate, I decided to build a snowman first—if nobody would come, then let this snowman be with my grandfather, accompanying him in this lonesome, desperately long Winter. Since there was so much snow I could use, I rolled two large snowballs quickly. I set the smaller one on top of the bigger one, so the silhouette of my snowman started to form. But it missed the details. On the snowy ground, I could find nothing. So I knocked at the gate, calling “Grandpa!”. Hui heard me; it began to bark; its heavy steel chain made a great deal of noise which revealed that it must have been very bored. The door opened; my grandfather’s wrinkled face appeared behind it.
His sleeping room was chilly, where only a small wood fire stove was used for heating, and the fire was about to die off. I added a few kindling into it. “Grandpa,” I patted Hui’s head while talking, “my parents wanted you to join dinner with us today. You must come; otherwise, I won't go.” I threatened.
Surprisingly, my grandfather obeyed. When he was changing clothes, I searched in the room for anything that probably could work for my snowman. Hui followed me to the outside. I used two small square wood pieces as the snowman’s eyes; a twig for the nose; then I pressed in a strand of red twine under his nose and curved it—the snowman became a smiling one; at last, a broken basket covered his head as the hat, and a damaged broom was leaned against him—going forward he would help to sweep the snow off the path for my grandfather. Hui was excited; it jumped around the snow man, kept barking.
All of a sudden, I felt the snowman was very similar to my grandfather—everything he had was patched together carelessly. He kept compromising himself. He was neglected in this empty place; even so, he didn’t argue, and was still trying whatever little ways he could to help his children: Just to save a few logs, he kept the fire in the stove low, almost out. Perhaps he would never understand that his little saving and heart weren’t important at all in others’ eyes—nobody cared, nobody appreciated, nobody even ever noticed. His children cared about their children only, and they forgot that one day they would become old as well. Then, would their children take good care of them?
My grandfather came out, locked the gate. I pointed my snowman to him: “Grandpa, it is for you, help you guard here!” He cracked out a smile, but didn’t say a word. We, and the dog, left for our house. When turning at a corner, I glanced back at my snowman: It stood in front of my parents’ factory, looking lonely and bewildered.
He remained there for a long time, then disappeared before spring.
Years later in a cold winter, my grandfather passed away on a small bed in my second uncle’s house, alone—he had been ill for quite some time, and insisted on staying with his sons. My uncle and aunt were busy with their daughter’s coming wedding; when one day they finally thought of their old father, he was found dead.
Rumor had it that my grandfather starved to death. I refused to believe it.
The kettle with boiling water was whistling, which dragged my mind back to reality. I rose from my seat to shut the stove. Peering from the window, the snow started again, yet the dawn hadn’t come. I wanted very much to build another snowman—the only one I had done was long gone; would it snow in that world? Would he find his home? Would he still stand outside my grandfather’s room in that unknown, snowy world waiting for someone to knock on the door?
If possible, I wished I could build a snow-dog as well, standing by the side of the snowman—therefore, no-one would be lonely.
“What does death mean? Nothing but deliver yourself to the mountains.”