"You can come back whenever you’re tired. We will always be your shelter." That’s what my grandpa told me when I went back, jobless.
The door of my grandparents' old house is open all year round. Fresh vegetables are always growing in front of the garden; figs, persimmon trees and cherry trees are planted in the courtyard; and there used to be several wintersweets, which would be folded and placed in a vase. During summer, adults would tie a hammock among the trees in the yard to let children have leisure, and the neighbors would greet each other when passing by. Time always passes more slowly here.
I was brought up in my grandparents’ house, then moved to a bigger city with my parents when I was 5 years old, and went back only a few times a year. Whenever I stepped into the house, I could always sense the familiar dampness; the tea table in the living room was covered with fruits and snacks; my cousin was doing homework in the room; my grandpa greeted me with a big hug, and my grandma was sitting on a small stool next to the sofa, watching the TV while trimming vegetables. A few years ago, grandpa built a small shed out of waste wood, which became the perfect place for the old people to chat. The light bulb in the shed was the only light source in the dark courtyard. Grandpa renovates the shed every year, sometimes to make it stronger and warmer, and sometimes to meet the needs of property management. The furniture and appliances at home are renovated from year to year as well, such as cracked pools, rusty faucets, showerheads, hairdryers, mops, brooms, bowls, chopsticks, and so on. I almost become the outsider of this story, seeing only the changes but not the process of changing.
Because of this, I missed many critical moments of the story. For example, grandma was selected as the star of a health care institution, and grandpa did many pull-ups in succession; they climbed up the mountain to dig wild vegetables, went to the studio to take artistic photos in front of a fake background of rape flower fields. But I’ve also missed grandma’s eye surgery, or the day when grandpa suddenly lost consciousness on the way out, and got home eventually without remembering anything. Ever since I was a child, I have been afraid to leave that yard. They would pack up several bags full of my "favorite" food that they started preparing days ago and put them in the trunk on the day we left. I sat in the back row, rolled down the window and listened to their warnings, waved goodbye and watched them disappear from sight when the car turned the corner. Then I would shed tears quietly, chat with my parents as if nothing had happened, and wipe my nose and tears with paper when I couldn't help it. This also happens on many other nights when I miss the steamed bread made by my grandma, the handmade noodles made by my grandpa, the cotton slippers sewn by grandma, the out-of-season figs frozen for me by grandpa, and the times when we went for a walk to the supermarket, made dumplings, and watched the bright dipper stars.
Sorry, I'm drowning in the thoughts of missing them right now, so excuse me for ending the story in such a hurry.