Come With Me Back to the Alley of My Childhood
A few days ago, after the baby had fallen safely asleep, I picked up my phone and put on some music. An old song I hadn’t heard in years came on — “Auld Lang Syne” — and the familiar melody slipped quietly into my ears: Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Before the song had ended, tears were already sliding down my face. In that moment I was back in the alley of my hometown, back in those unhurried, unfenced days.
Childhood — the carefree laughter with my playmates still echoes in my memory.
One familiar face after another surfaces: Xiaohua, my inseparable everyday companion; my cousin, who came over every weekend; the classmates I did homework with after school; my older brother, the older girls from next door. We jumped rubber-band rope, played marbles, hopscotch, hide-and-seek, or played house in the lane, and the laughing never stopped. In the script of my childhood, they were the essential cast. Together we wrote those innocent years.
Sour Grapes
When memory settles on the back courtyard, a scene rises quietly. My older cousin would climb a creaking wooden ladder and carefully reach for the few purple grapes up there. I stood at the foot of the ladder, steadying it, looking up as he picked — and sneaked a few into his own mouth along the way. All I had in my hand were a few sour green ones that made my whole face pucker with a single bite, and still I ate them, laughing. Even knowing I’d been “arranged” into the worse deal, I wasn’t the least bit angry. Because with him, there was always some new way to play: giving a toad an “injection” with a syringe, practicing our water-skimming footwork by the water vat, and once raising a creature we called a zhulili — though to this day we couldn’t say whether it was a rabbit or a rodent. Even a sudden hailstorm became a game; we grabbed the hailstones like treasure and stuffed them into our mouths. Back then, even wind and rain were full of fun.
The Adventure
My cousin’s house was a long way from ours, the whole route winding paths and rolling dirt slopes. One drizzly day, the two of us small children got an idea into our heads: we’d walk there ourselves. We didn’t tell any of the adults. One four years old, one five, both in flip-flops, each with a lollipop in her mouth — off we went. Our sandals made a squelch, squelch in the mud, and now and then a foot would slide out from under us and we’d land on our backsides — and we’d just burst out laughing, brush ourselves off, and keep going. Rain settled in our hair and dripped down from the ends of it, blurring our eyes, and it didn’t dampen our spirits at all. That hour-long walk felt like an adventure made just for us, every turn a fresh challenge. On that muddy little road, the happiness of childhood is still as clear as yesterday. I can almost hear our bright laughter the whole way there.
Kings of the Mountain
Whenever we had nothing to do, Xiaohua and I would want to climb onto the roof. Every time we made it up to the ridge, we’d each pick a corner, sit cross-legged, crown ourselves “Kings of the Mountain,” and draw the borders of our kingdoms — no trespassing allowed. The sun lay warm on the tiles, and now and then a sparrow crossed over, leaving a line of hopping shadows. From up there we looked out at Lake Tai, the water glittering, sunlight scattered across it like broken silver. The far mountains appeared and disappeared in the mist, and we’d talk about the world on the other side of them while imagining that when we grew up we’d go exploring together, somewhere far away. In that moment the whole world lay beneath our feet, and we were naive and bold and full of dreams, as if the future were already within arm’s reach.
In those days we carried no schoolwork and none of the worries of growing up. All day long we ran loose and played free — like birds who had just learned to fly, opening our wings and moving as we pleased between earth and sky; like the Monkey King newly sprung from his stone, running, leaping, romping everywhere, the whole world our playground. Whenever gloom came over us, we’d walk down to the edge of Lake Tai and stare out at the water and the green hills, and in a breath in and a breath out, it was as if all our sorrow had been carried off by the breeze.
Today, when that melody plays again, the faces may be blurred and the laughter may be far away, but the warmth is as real and lasting as the smell of earth after rain. It has taught me this: some partings exist to make the memory more precious, and some distances exist to prove that longing can cross mountains and seas.
And right now, borrowing this familiar melody, I only want to say to every companion from those old days: thank you for making my childhood shine. May the lake and the hills we each carry inside us never gather dust.
A question for you: what — or who — do you miss most from your own childhood?