The kite

In the winter in Beijing, there is still snow on the ground, and the gray and black branches of the bald trees are forking in the clear sky, while one or two kites are floating in the distance.

The kite season in my hometown is spring and February. If you hear the sound of rustling wind wheels, you can see a light ink-colored crab kite or a soft blue centipede kite when you look up. There is also a lonely tile kite, which has no wind wheel and is flown very low, showing a haggard and pitiful appearance. But by now the willows on the ground had sprouted, and the early hickories were much in bud, echoing the children's heavenly embellishments, and playing into the mildness of spring. Where am I now? The sternness of winter is still on all sides, but the long-lost spring of my hometown, which has been parted for a long time, is swirling in the sky.

But I never liked kite flying, not only did I not like it, but I hated it, because I thought it was the plaything of a child with no talent. He was sickly and thin, but he liked kites most. He could not afford to buy one himself, and I forbade him to fly it. When a crab kite suddenly fell down in the distance, he exclaimed; when two tile kites were untangled, he jumped for joy. All these of his seemed to me to be laughable and contemptible.

One day I suddenly remembered that I had not seen him for many days, but I remembered that I had seen him gathering dead bamboo in the back garden. It dawned on me, so I ran to a seldom-visited hut where miscellaneous things were piled up, pushed open the door, and found him among the dusty piles. He faced the big square bench, sitting on a small stool; then stood up in fear, lost color and cowered. The bamboo bones of a butterfly kite were leaning against the large square stool, not yet glued with paper, and on the stool was a pair of small wind wheels for eyes, decorated with red strips of paper, which were about to be finished. In the satisfaction of discovering the secret, I was angry that he had concealed it from my eyes and had taken such pains to steal the plaything of a child of no talent. I immediately reached out and broke one of the butterfly's wing bones, and threw the wind wheel to the ground and flattened it. In terms of length, in terms of strength, he is no match for me, I certainly got a complete victory, so proudly walked out, leaving him to stand in despair in the hut. What happened to him after that, I do not know, and did not pay attention.

My punishment finally came, however, long after we had parted, and I was already middle-aged. I had the misfortune to come across a foreign book on children, and learned that play is the most legitimate behavior of children, and that toys are the angels of children. Then the scene of spiritual abuse in my childhood, which I had not recalled for twenty years, suddenly unfolded before my eyes, and it was as if my heart had turned into a lead block at the same time, and fell down very, very heavily.

But my heart did not fall so hard that it was cut off, it just fell and fell.

I knew how to make up for it: I gave him a kite, approved of him flying it, persuaded him to fly it, and I flew it together with him. We yelled, ran, and laughed - but he had a beard by then, just like me.

I also knew there was a way to make up for it: to ask his forgiveness, to wait for him to say, "I don't blame you." Then, my heart must be relieved, and this is indeed a feasible method. Once, when we met, our faces were streaked with the hard work of "life," and my heart was heavy. We gradually talked about the old days of our childhood, and I recounted this section, telling myself about the confusion of my youth. "I don't blame you for that." I think he said that I was forgiven immediately, and my heart was relieved from then on.

"Was there ever anything like that?" He laughed in amazement, as if he were listening to someone else's story. He could not remember anything.

What forgiveness is there in forgetting, in not holding a grudge? Forgiveness without complaint is only a lie.

What more can I ask for? My heart is heavy.

Now, the spring of my hometown is again in the air of this foreign land, giving me memories of my long-lost childhood, and at the same time carrying with it a sorrow that I cannot grasp. I might as well hide myself in the stern winter, but it is clearly a severe winter on all sides, and it is giving me a very cold and frigid air.

January 24, 1925