Author: Yilin Lu
The sun was setting, the tourists coming and going, everyone talking happily, playing with kites and small flying cars with their peers, crossing the Gongchen Bridge with bravery. But I was standing alone, looking at an ice gourd on the Gongchen Bridge from a distance, never took that step to the bridge.
Somehow, since childhood, I had been fear of crossing the bridge. Looking at the arch Chen bridge without too much cover, I always worried that my feet would slip, and I would be accidentally falling into the lake, choking, and drowning alive. With that vague fear, looking at the bridge on the green rocks' broken traces, I still do not dare to cross the bridge alone.
Today, I carried my little yellow bag, jumped, and walked home holding my grandpa's hand as always. Walking in the embrace of the setting sun, we passed by the Gongchen Bridge.
"Do you want to take a look?" Grandpa pointed to Gongchen Bridge and said to me.
“Yes!”
I ran forward, past the People's Government and through the bustling square. The pigtails my grandpa tied for me were swaying from side to side, the wind caressed my cheeks, and the clouds followed my pace straight to the Gongchen Bridge.
Through the bustling crowd, walking to the bridge, I suddenly hesitated. Looking at the steep stone slabs, and potholes in the railings, a shiver in my heart: what if I fall? Someone can save me up. Looking at the arch of the bridge under the bottomless canal, my feet trembling, trembling, palms gradually emerged with a fine sweat.
At this time, grandpa came to my side, took my hand, and with his calloused hand pulled me across the bridge together. His big hand held my small hand and the warm internal flow from the heart of the hand overflowed.
Grandpa bent down to me and said, “When in danger or fear, the Bodhisattva will protect you.” He opened the other palm: an amulet, which he then tied around my neck.
My apprehensive heart finally fell, no longer thinking about how deep the lake was, but how warm my grandpa's hands were.
Grandpa was a rough man on the outside and soft inside. He often used stern words to supervise me, but I could always find a trace of tenderness in his eyes and movements.
At this moment, in my grandpa's rough and warm hands, I seemed to draw strength, so that I was not afraid to cross the bridge, not afraid of the lake.
We walked slowly, looked at the green stone rock carved on the new pattern, looked across the bridge willow brush over the blue water waves, ripples burst. Watching the green swallows on the water surface of the shocking shadow, leaving a fine water line, everything was so poetic, everything was also so peaceful.
One step, two steps, three steps, across the top of the Gongchen Bridge, a distant view of the front, that was a sublime landscape.
The end of the bridge was a completely different firework: the street was lined with stores, the thin sunset lightly sprinkled on the red bricks and green tiles, above the flying eaves, looking down, the door beams hanging strings of lanterns; several rows of red tung wood houses were hung with a variety of square wood: Fang Hui Chun Hall, scented candle store, Su-style acupuncture.
Looking to the left, the pastry truck came rattling toward me. I fixed my eyes to watch the pastry chef rolling the red ball; using lard and flour to knead through to make water and oil dough. I walked closer, fascinated by his clean and sharp style. When I saw it, it was a lotus flower pastry.
Wow! I saw the red and tender bean paste filling wrapped tightly in the oil pastry, which made my mouth water. I hastily asked my grandpa for a ten-yuan bill. The pastry chef fished out the lotus puff pastry that had just been put into the frying pan and wrapped it carefully in a greasy paper bag. I hurriedly handed the chef a ten-dollar bill. My grandpa looked at me with a smile as he held the hot lotus flower pastry for me.
Spring rain gently converged to Gongchen Bridge noise, the light of day and night gradually dappled the pattern of the bridge, long time to support the gaps, these steps collected so many mornings and evenings, carrying so many people's sorrow and joy. Walking on the green and gray concrete steps, eating lotus puff pastry, listening to grandpa's slow footsteps, green cloth shoes walking across the green stone slab, leaving a thin, fragmented sound.
Now what originally made me fear the Gongchen Bridge and the deep river also seemed to soften, and I looked at Grandpa, and he looked at me.
But this bridge is very old, grandpa is also very old.
The knock knock, the crackle, the crispness of the drums beating, the low sound of the chanting, and the sounds of the adults speaking brought me back to reality. I stood in front of my old home, a renovated old wall and brickwork. It was the familiar old building that hid memories belonging to my childhood and my grandpa's time here. As my dad had instructed, I bowed with the Taoist priests in their dark blue coats. They wore large knitted robes with a graphic pattern on the back of their robes. They too looked older, but their eyes were shining and oiled.
They stood at the front, their huge swollen blue and red coats making their figures tall and large. Their backs were turned to me as they read the yellowed booklet spread on the table. They stared at the writing, singing, and chattering in their dialect.
Every now and then they bowed toward the yellow book and flag in front of them. When I looked at it, it was completely different from the "Classroom Excellence" flags I usually see at school. This flag was painted with the gods in the sky, each gleaming, holding a halberd in one hand and holding scriptures in the other. There were also two Bodhisattvas holding bottles, standing on either side of Grandpa's picture.
It was pretty, but why did we have to bow to it? I frowned and wanted to leave. However, my dad suddenly called me to stop.
"Yoyo, come back quickly, what are you doing upstairs?" Dad held out his hand to greet me.
"It's too boring to keep bowing like this, I want to go find grandpa," I said and tried to run upstairs, but dad stopped me with his stern voice.
Dad pulled me to the side and said, “Grandpa went to heaven, we are praying for grandpa to eat and drink well in heaven. If you are so nonsense, the Bodhisattva in heaven to see that you do not have this blessing in mind, will not put grandpa well.”
I shook my head, what was going on? I looked to my left and right, but grandpa was gone. He didn't even say goodbye to me in advance, so why did he go to the sky to eat good food by himself? He won't be picking me up after school, so I'll have to buy the lotus flower pastry for three people.
That's right, the amulet! I then ripped the amulet from my neck and held it in my hand and rushed to the second floor. I ran into my grandpa's room, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Grandpa's room was neat and tidy, as usual, the quilt was folded neatly; the clothes were lying properly in the closet, but the TV was different from the usual black screen as if it had suddenly broken down a few days ago. I looked around, and soon after I heard footsteps. Grandpa's bed was covered with gauze, and the adults put grandpa’s clothes neatly into boxes one after another. Grandpa's favorite TV was moved out.
Mom surprisingly came back from a business trip, her eyes hanging crystal teardrops, and these good heavy dark circles, she used a napkin, repeatedly with her trembling hands to wipe away the tears on her face... but the tears were like broken beads, no matter how many times you wiped them, they wouldn’t stop falling.
“Why are you all so sad? Is it because grandpa went to play in the sky and is not with us anymore? Is the amulet able to protect itself? Then why can't it protect grandpa?" I asked mom. I walked forward and handed the amulet in my hand to my mom to see. But mom just shook her head.
I pondered, but the sound of a gong broke my thoughts. The Taoist priest no longer chanted in a low voice, but formed a line around the table, with the Taoist priest in the middle bowing his head and taking out a black box from behind a flag. Mom and dad came forward, took the box, and slowly walked toward me. It turned out that grandpa did not go to heaven, but like an old, wrinkled newspaper, weathered in the years, was put into this small box.
I was dumbfounded for a moment, and then I was placed at the table. There were big fish and pearls of seafood in front of me, and my relatives swarmed forward to grab chopsticks, but I had no appetite at all.
The original sad atmosphere had disappeared, and all that remained was the afterglow of relatives fighting over the food. It seemed like a contradiction in terms, serving a hot meal at the saddest of times, just like laying a plate of black sand on white paper - nothing had happened. So does anyone still remember my grandpa or just the mesmerizingly fragrant meals? Everything was so strange, but again I couldn't find the answer.
Gradually, gradually, the wildfire in the high mountains engulfed the relics of my grandpa, the traces of my grandpa. When I returned home, the lake at Gongchen Bridge was still as deep as ever, and the tourists were still as lively as ever. I walked across the bridge alone and saw the little store that sold lotus puffs.
The lake of Gongchen Bridge did not speak.