Chapter 4 Part 1 Second Grandma

Because of those two old ladies in the kindergarten, I always think of another woman.No, no, they have never been in contact with each other. She has never met Teacher Sun and Teacher Su.But in my impression, she always appears together with them, like each other's shadow. I call this woman "Second Grandma".For some reason, I've always wanted to write about her. However, when I was about to write it, I realized that I actually knew very little about my second grandma.She just passed by in my childhood.I don't even know her name, I should have asked when my mother was alive, but I have long since forgotten.After my mother died, that name was extinguished forever; the history under that name, the aspirations under that name, disappeared as if they had never existed.I asked my father: "What is the name of the person I call my second grandma?" My father thought and thought, staring at the sky, as if he was about to find it, but in the end he still couldn't find it.I asked my uncle again, and my uncle forgot equally thoroughly.Uncle has been vaguely heard of, she died during the "Cultural Revolution".Uncle looked at me in surprise: "Do you still remember her?"

This is indeed a bit strange.I have not met her more than ten times in total.I can't even remember what she said to me, or the sound of her voice.She is silent, black and white, like a shadow.Wearing a plain cheongsam, she came out of the darkness, walked over a slanting sun, approached me, then stroked my head, smoothed my hair, and ran her slender fingers through my hair, gently trembling.That's all, the rest has been blurred.Until now, until I really want to write about her, in fact, I still don't know why I want to write about her, and what to write about her. She won't remember me.I mean, if she was still alive, she would have forgotten my name long ago, too.But she will definitely remember my mother.She might also remember that my mother already had a boy.

My mother took me to see my second grandma, which must have happened before I was six years old, or earlier, because I haven't seen her since I went to kindergarten.is she beautifulNot quite, but still pretty, demure, and spotless from head to toe.I can’t remember where she lived in Beijing, but in my impression it was a simple courtyard, simple but quiet, there was a pomegranate tree somewhere with bright red petals falling, and she lived in a hut at the corner of the courtyard.Only in the evening did the sunlight turn into the hut with difficulty, casting a faint slanting sun.She came out of the darkness behind the setting sun and faced us.So my mother said: "Call me the second grandma, what is your name?" I called: "The second grandma." She walked up to me and patted my head.I can't see her face, but I know she has a smile on her face, and behind the smile is fear.The fear was not because of our arrival. From the cold and slow trembling of her hands, I knew that the fear was in a more hidden place, or because of a more distant realm.That kind of trembling is so delicate that it cannot be distinguished by reason, but the child's chaotic heart can perceive it.

Perhaps, it was this trembling that made me remember her.Perhaps, about her, all I can write is this trembling.This trembling is a telling, like a fable that can extend into all the deep places, shocking unexpectedly.This trembling is one of the most expansive sounds, like the flow of night, without stopping.This trembling, with the flow of time, expands a child's chaotic mind, connects other people's stories, entangles in rich history, and diffuses into various possible fates.I'm afraid that's it.So I remember her.In the future, beside many trembling fates, her image always appears, as if condensed by many silent souls, recommended by all annihilated wishes.So those slender fingers always interspersed and trembled in my hair through the vicissitudes of life, asking me what are the stories in this world, and who are in the stories?

The second grandma was not a few years older than the mother.When she called her mother, she called her first name.Mother never called her, she didn't call her anything, she just talked when she spoke, avoiding titles.Her mother kept telling her this and that, and she answered simply.The mother walked back and forth disturbing the setting sun, and the second grandma seemed to be still in the darkness. The plain cheongsam blended into the darkness, but her pale face showed that she was there.A movement and a stillness, I use this to distinguish the two of them.Mother would ask her for cutting skills, compare a piece of fabric with her body, or pick among many colored silk threads, and embroider under her guidance, embroider pillows and handkerchiefs.Sometimes they seem to be telling some secrets, their eyes are wary of me, and when I approach, my mother's voice becomes quieter.

It seems that there are only these.For the second grandma, that's all I can describe.Apart from her mother, it is unlikely that anyone else would know her heart.But my mother never told anyone. For many years, I never thought about who the second grandma was and what kind of relative she was in our family.One day, for no reason (maybe it was because I thought that my mother hadn't taken me to see my second grandma for several years), I suddenly asked my mother, "Second grandma, who is she to you?" My mother seemed to be caught off guard. , for a while.The eyes of my mother and I met at a place closer to my mother, and I saw that I had hit on something extraordinary.Mother also understood that there are some things that can no longer be hidden.

"Oh, she is... um..." I don't talk, don't interrupt her. "It's your grandfather's... concubine. You know, there used to be... such things." The eyes of my mother and I touched lightly again, this time closer to me.Well, that's probably why my mother stopped taking me to see her. "Now, what about her?" I asked. "I don't know." The mother shook her head gently and sighed. "Maybe she doesn't want us to see her again," said the mother, "but that's all right." Mother said again: "She should get married."

I can't tell whether the word "should" means necessary or possible.I couldn't tell whether my mother's words were relief or worry. One day during the "Cultural Revolution", my mother came back from outside and told my father that she seemed to see her second grandma on the bus. "Are you sure you read it right?" Mother didn't answer.My mother was washing vegetables and cooking, and stopped to think for a while, and said: "It's her, it's her. She must have seen me too, but she avoided it." Father pondered for a while, and comforted his mother: "She is Good intentions, I'm afraid we will be hurt." The mother sighed, "Oh, who is hurting whom..."

That is to say, the second grandma died not long after that.