Father's Back

 　　By Zhang Zhonglin

　　It's been over a year since I last saw my father, and I often dream of his back.

　　Last year, during the National Day holiday, I went home. My father said there were no cars from town to our house, so he would pick me up in his electric scooter. A seventy-year-old man—could he really drive an electric scooter? Looking at my father sitting in the front driving, all I saw was his back: his head was down, looking ahead, his back bulging, each bone clearly visible, covered only by skin. He gripped the steering wheel, bent over, looking like a plowshare. Was this still my tall and imposing father?

　　When my father was young, he helped people blast rocks in the mountains. In my free time, I liked to go play at his place. Back then, I often saw him wielding a large iron hammer, smashing rocks until sparks flew everywhere. What an image that was! Perhaps a close-up could depict it: my tall father, his back as broad as a doorway, his legs as firm as pillars, his arms bulging with muscles, swinging the hammer with a whooshing sound.

　　A few days ago, I saw Courbet's oil painting "The Quarrymen," and it suddenly dawned on me that my impression of him differed significantly from reality. Because of the poverty of that time, my father was similar to the protagonist in "The Quarrymen," wearing a brimless straw hat, patched clothes, and worn-out shoes with his heels showing. This can be seen in a black-and-white photograph of him from that era. This

　　was the harsh reality, but I still love the image of my father smashing stones: his brown back, taut arms, and the hammer raised high. The whole painting possesses immense tension and a soul-stirring expressiveness; who wouldn't give him a thumbs up? However, the father before me completely lacked that imposing presence. He was hunched over and short, his speech even slightly slurred. How could he compare to the image of that time? I couldn't bear to think about it anymore, couldn't bear to look. When

　　I got home, I caught a cold. My body felt weak, and I had no energy. Seeing my father carrying a load of manure to water the fields, I offered to do it. My father laughed and said, "You're made of paper; you can't withstand the wind." Then, I saw my father's back again: he stretched his neck, bent over, gripped the carrying pole with both hands, his whole body bent like a bow. Watching him walk with faltering steps, tears streamed down my face. As his son, I couldn't let my aging father enjoy his old age in peace.

　　On the day I left, just before leaving, my father told me to wait a moment, that he would pick some pomelos to take with me. He said pomelos were good for my high blood pressure and high cholesterol, and he had taken almost all the pomelos from the tree to me. Looking at the pomelos at the top of the tree, he prepared to climb up to pick them. At his age, it was dangerous! I shouted and ran to my father, trying to take the basket from his waist, but he resolutely refused: "Don't think you're younger than me, but when it comes to climbing trees, I'm agile, you can't." My

　　father, hanging upside down from the tree, looked like a plastic bag hanging on the branch, fluttering in the wind, as if he might be blown away at any moment. Then my tears came again. My father no longer had the broad back of his youth; he was so thin that he was almost deformed, only a slender outline that could be grasped in one hand. A jacket billowed in the wind like a sail, making him look like a cicada shedding its skin. His hands were even more unsightly, like blackened firewood sticks, devoid of any luster; cracked like hemp stalks, without a trace of muscle. Was this still my father? Tears flooded my vision like a burst dam.

　　For over a year, every single day, I had missed my father, unable to forget his silhouette. No matter what, I must go back to see him, to tell him about my work, my life.