Pow!

proudly, picking the bones out of the pot. ‘Eat until you're full. Today you can have as much as you want!’

    That night, Mother did something totally out of character—she lit the room's glass-shaded oil lamp, flooding our house with light for the first time and casting enlarged shadows onto a white wall from which hung strings of leeks and peppers. Jiaojiao, who had perked up after a difficult day, brought her hands together in the beam of light to form a dog's head on the wall.

    ‘A dog, Daddy,’ she said excitedly, ‘it's a dog!’

    Father shot a quick glance at Mother before he said somewhat forlornly: ‘Yes, it's Jiaojiao's little black puppy.’

    Jiaojiao then moved her hands and fingers to form the silhouette of a rabbit, not perfect but definitely recognizable. ‘No, it's not a dog,’ she said, ‘it's a bunny, a little bunny.’

    ‘You're right, it's a bunny. Our Jiaojiao's a clever little girl.’ But having praised his daughter, he turned to Mother apologetically, ‘She's still a child, hasn't figured out the world yet.’

    ‘Do you really expect her to, at her young age?’ Mother said tolerantly and then surprised us all by putting her hands together to decorate the wall with the silhouette of a rooster, complete with cockscomb and tail, and then finished it off with a crisp cock-a-doodle-doo ! What a shock! I'd become so used to her constant complaints and scolding over the years, plus the ever-present scowl and sour demeanour, that the possibility of her knowing how to do hand shadows, not to mention how to crow like a rooster, never occurred to me. I have to admit that once again I had mixed emotions. From the moment Father appeared at our gate that morning with his daughter on his shoulders, I'd experienced nothing but mixed emotions. I don't know any other way to describe what I was feeling.

    Joyful laughter burst from Jiaojiao's throat, and what passed for a smile appeared on Father's face.

    Mother looked tenderly at Jiaojiao, heaved a sigh, and said: ‘It's always the adults who cause these messes, never the children.’

    ‘That's right,’ said Father without looking up. ‘One mistake after another, and always by me.’

    ‘We've all made mistakes, so no more of that talk.’ Mother stood up and deftly slipped on her over-sleeves. ‘Xiaotong,’ she said, raising her voice, ‘you little rascal, I know you hate me, a stingy old bag who hasn't let you so much as taste meat over the last five years. Am I right? Well, today is going to be different. I've cooked this pig's head as a reward to the troops. You can eat till you burst!’

    She placed the chopping board alongside the stove, laid the pig's head on it, then picked up her little hatchet, took the target's measure and swung.

    ‘We just had sausage…’ Father stood up. ‘Earning enough to get by has been hard on you two,’ he said to stop her. ‘Why not sell this pig's head? A person's stomach is like a sack you fill up no matter what you put in it, chaff and vegetables or meat and fish…’

    ‘Is that really you talking?’ Mother's dripped sarcasm but then quickly changed her tune: ‘I'm as human as the next person,’ she said, deadly serious, ‘with a red mouth, white teeth, flesh and blood. I know how good meat tastes. I never ate it, but back then I was foolish and ignorant. When it comes down to it, the mouth is the most important thing in life.’

    Wringing his hands, Father began to say something, but stopped. Instead, he took a few steps back, then strode forward, reached out and said to Mother: ‘Here, let me.’

    She hesitated briefly before laying down the hatchet and stepping away.

    Father rolled up his sleeves, pushed up the tattered cuffs of his vest beneath his shirtsleeves, picked up the hatchet and raised it over his head. Without, it seemed, taking aim, he took an easy swing, then another, and the pig's head split right down the middle.

    Mother was studying Father, who had stepped away from the chopping board, with a look so ambiguous that even I, a son who thought he could read her mind and anticipate her every move, had no idea what she was thinking. But here's what it boiled down to: the moment Father split that pig's head in two, Mother's mood underwent a change. She pursed her lips slightly and poured half a bucket of water into the pot on the stove, a little too forcefully, I thought, since some of it splashed over the sides onto a box of matches on the stove rack. She