In my junior year of college, I was in a relationship with Mr. Zhang. When I shared my background with her, the first thing she asked was, "Where is your hometown?" When I replied that it was Dalian, she fell silent, and a cold war ensued that lasted for many days.
When I called her later, I deliberately avoided the topic. She stopped asking, but would only hint at it: "Look at Mrs. Li's son next door. He went to the same university as you, and he has a good appearance and character. I have his number; why don't you get in touch?"
She would add that if a woman marries far away, her family won't be able to help if she suffers at her in-laws' house. I felt impatient and asked what she was really trying to say.
She replied, "I just hope the family you marry into isn't too far away, so you can ride a motorcycle back to visit during festivals."
I said, word by word: "First, even if I weren't in a relationship, I wouldn't return to my hometown after graduation. Second, even if you disagree, I won't listen. Finally, I didn't study all these years just to marry neighbor Xiao Li; I want to marry Xiao Zhang from Dalian."
She couldn't accept this fact and would occasionally mutter to herself in grievance, wondering what was so wrong with our hometown and why I couldn't stay.
What was wrong with our hometown? I didn't really know either.
More than a decade ago, my father retired from the army, and our whole family moved from the Northeast back to southern Henan. My father always said that "falling leaves must return to their roots," and that one shouldn't drift forever. But I wasn't willing; I wanted to keep moving forward.
Over the years, I clearly remember every long winter. A cold wind would drift through the house, and the chill would seep silently from my bones to my fingertips. I remember the large, purplish-red chilblains on the back of my hands, and the blankets and sheets that felt as if they would never dry. In those barren days, time seemed to stand still; day after day, people in ragged clothes sat on stools in the courtyard, chasing the thin sunlight.
Here, poverty, ignorance, and superstition seem tightly interwoven, locking people to the land. While the outside world undergoes massive transformations, this place retains the beliefs and rhythms of the agrarian era. From the moment I returned, I had only one thought: I must leave, I must leave.
