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I want to grow old.
We would live in a small and narrow wooden house. The wooden house would have a few holes here and there, and a locust tree would slowly grow through the cracks over the years.
A shadow would cover the window frame, and mothballs and moss would sprout in the night.
I would wear a gaudy outer robe, curl my black hair into waves, and make my way down to the public kitchens to make his meals.
When the oil began the sizzle, I would begin by scattering the chopped onion slices into the pot.
The passersby would ask: whose house made such fragrant dishes?
Of course, it would be our house.
A-Chen and Shui Miao’s house.