Wo Xiang Bian Lao

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.