In May, the spring sun rose above the mountains of the village, revealing a red face and coating the tranquil village with a bright hue. In the mountain hollows, the shouts of uncles urging their oxen floated above the lush green forests.
Black smoke curled from the chimneys of red-walled, blue-tiled roofs. In an uncle's kitchen, the fire in the stove crackled. An aunt chopped fresh, plump eggplants on a thick pine cutting board. A beam of sunlight streamed through a glass tile in the roof, gently illuminating the quiet of the kitchen.
Soon, the smell of rapeseed oil filled the entire kitchen. The aunt bustled between the large iron pot and the stove. Half an hour later, the Eight Immortals table in the hall was set with invitingly fragrant dishes and clean bamboo chopsticks, awaiting the return of the uncle after his labor.
The sun strolled leisurely across the flat courtyard, where pumpkin flowers bloomed brightly among fine grasses. Several yellow beetles clustered around spiky, round leaves.
On the path leading to the mountain hollow, his rolled-up trouser legs were already damp from dew on the surrounding weeds. His oily black face remained expressionless as he faced the myriad things of the mountain village, habitually maintaining this demeanor like a silent mountain ridge, quietly observing the grass turning yellow or the trees becoming verdant.
Beside the house, the emerald bamboo forest had seen its new shoots shed their brown husks and extend their green stems.
The uncle arrived at the yard, entered the hall, and took a towel through the kitchen to wash his face by the well. The aunt asked, "Are you back?" The uncle merely emitted a soft hum from his nose - hmm.
After washing, the uncle ate breakfast at the Eight Immortals table while the aunt sat on a bamboo chair beside him, smoking a long bamboo pipe. Soon, the hall was filled with the robust aroma of homemade tobacco (she regarded smoking as a reward for her hard work). As she smoked, she talked about the vegetable garden: how weeds had grown in the soybean fields, there were more insects on the cucumber vines, and the sweet potato fields needed turning...
The uncle seemed to listen or not as he picked up his food and ate, saying nothing in response.
Disappointed, the aunt tapped her bamboo pipe against the foot of the bamboo chair, emptied the burnt tobacco, coughed lightly, and rose to prepare pig feed in the kitchen. The hall immediately fell silent, save for the ticking of the old clock in the room.
After the meal, the uncle returned to the fields along the winding mountain path. After feeding the pigs and eating, the aunt carried a bamboo basket to weed and harvest vegetables in the garden.
When the aunt married the uncle at twenty, she brought along a little girl. Since then, they had no more children and adopted my older brother. Now, their daughter was married, their son worked away, and without children around, the couple spent their days in tranquility. Sometimes, the aunt really wanted to pick a fight with the uncle, but even that desire was hard to realize.
On weekends, our older brother, who worked in the county town, drove home with his wife and children. Upon entering, he called out loudly, "Mom! Dad!"
Hearing the sound, the aunt straightened up in the garden, her sunken eyes gleaming with light, and quickly responded.
The older brother crossed the weedy field ridges, pushed open the cedar gate of the garden, and came to the aunt's side. Smiling, the aunt led the older brother through the layers of green leaves in the vegetable garden, showing him the growth of various vegetables. She spoke and picked fresh cucumbers, eggplants, peppers... The warm sun shone on the emerald branches, and spots of light dappled the brown soil.
Later, the older brother carried a basket full of vegetables out of the garden, and the aunt locked the garden gate behind her. In the yard, the sister-in-law had already washed the clothes in the wooden basin and hung them to dry on the long bamboo poles. Watching TV, the nephew rushed out and picked a tender green cucumber from the bamboo basket.
Relieved, the aunt watched her daughter-in-law and grandson, listening to their sweet calls of "Mom, Grandma."
At noon, the older brother tied an apron around his waist, rolled up his sleeves, and cooked in the kitchen while the aunt helped.
The uncle returned from working in the fields, seeing the older brother's family and smiling for the first time in a long while. In the hall, he awkwardly spoke Mandarin to play with the grandson.
After the meal, the nephew, finding no one to play with, cried to go home. The older brother and sister-in-law stood up to leave. The aunt saw them off to the village entrance. Standing under the sturdy oak tree, she watched the older brother's car drive onto the country road and disappear behind the mountain before dragging her lonely shadow back home.
At night, after half a day’s work in the fields, the uncle slept soundly. The aunt sat on a bamboo chair, wearing reading glasses, watching lively TV programs. Frogs croaked in the rice paddies in front of the door, and crickets sang joyfully in the geranium bushes under the eaves. The May mountain village was peaceful and quiet.
In August 2005, the aunt passed away peacefully in this tranquility. I traveled a thousand miles for the funeral, arriving at this familiar mountain village after a night of travel. The uncle sat motionlessly in the hall, his cloudy eyes filled with sorrow.
Since then, every return to the mountain village felt devoid of its former atmosphere. There was no more fragrance of meals wafting from the kitchen, and no more red and green, lush vegetables in the garden.
The aunt's workplace was that patch of red and green, lush vegetables, a kind and serene elder.