Spring

I eat the quail. It is a small victory, throwing stones at the ghosts that haunt me. It is cold now, a little slimy, but still palatable. I arrange the bones into a little pile. It looks like firewood.

I want to set them on fire, let the marrow burn, and then eat the ashes. I want to get rid of the evidence of my past.

These ghosts are unfazed by my efforts.

I guess part of it is my fault. I won't let myself forget.

This is the story.

There was a girl. I suppose I could describe her, but it is not worth the effort. She was beautiful to me. I don't want to talk about her heart, because that is something she gave to me, and who am I to give it away so easily.

I will keep her to myself, as much as I can. This is how I keep her alive.

Her name was 安春 (Anchūn)...quiet spring. Her birthday was in May, after the rain stopped and just before the flowers came in. The persimmon trees would grow fragrant, and she would hold my hand and revel in the light air. She used to laugh with me, keeping true to her namesake. The epitome of quiet grace.

Our English teacher used to call her Ann. She was always first in role call. Silly girl - English was never her strong subject, but she spoke more than anyone else in the room. The teacher would shake his head and laugh with us, with her - who could resist.

Her father used to call her 小公主 (Xiǎo gōngzhǔ) - little princess. He was the village's school teacher. In elementary school, we would stay in his classroom, cleaning boards for pieces of white rabbit candy. He cried when we went on to middle school, and left him behind.

When her mother was in a good mood, her name was 春春, Chunchun. When she was angry, I could barely make out the words coming out of her mouth. In high school, we would come back from the city to visit, and sit in her kitchen. She would laugh at her mother, flitting from every corner of the room, cleaning, cooking, speaking to other mothers on the phone. Her mother liked me. She would pinch my cheeks and tell me how good looking I've grown, and pat my head to thank me for helping her wash the dinner dishes.

I suppose if she had a younger brother or sister, they would have called her 大姐姐 (Dà jiějie), older sister. She used to tell me her regrets, at night, and thank me for being her friend. The emptiness of growing up alone breeds hopeless children. China's one-child policy saves the day, she used to proclaim bitterly. "What do I do then, when my parents are gone, and the house is dark and empty?"

"You have me," I would say.

"What if I didn't?"

To me, she was lovingly dubbed, 鹌鹑 (Ānchún) - quail. Our English teacher used to teach us homonyms, synonyms, antonyms...I still cannot tell them apart. Anyways, one of them is about words that sound the same but have different meanings. To the Westerners, everything we say sounds the same. But to us, there are nuances, lifts and falls - four types of them.

She could tell the difference between the spring and the bird, and she would complain. "Why a quail? What a weak bird!"

"They're delicate. Small like you. And they taste good." I tried to kiss her, and she leaned forward.

"In your dreams!" She pushed me away and ran, pretending to be mad.

But I could tell she wasn't. She liked the name just as much as I did, and I kept calling her that, my little bird.

On her birthday, I would take her out and order a table-full of quails. She'd pick them apart with her little hands, and joke about cannibalism.

It is almost her birthday again. I wonder how she will celebrate. I wonder if she will think of me.

I don't say her name out loud anymore. It doesn't do any good to call it out. It escapes my lips and it loses a little meaning each time.

These memories, like her, are slowly flying away from me.

These memories, like me, are slowly losing their way.