Lu Mingxin · Chat

He woke before the day had fully broken. The window paper showed a pale blue-gray tint. A bird chirped twice and went silent again. He threw off the blanket and sat up, not lighting a lamp, dressing in the dark. The clothes were old, with frayed cuffs, but clean. He tied his belt and pushed open the room door. The morning wind, carrying the chill of dew, hit his face. He stood for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light outside before slowly walking toward the flower garden. The flower garden was at the foot of the back mountain, accessible by a stone-paved path. Moss grew in the crevices between the stones, feeling soft underfoot and making no sound. He walked slowly, his breathing light, as if afraid of waking something up. Arriving at the garden, he first squatted down to inspect a peony plant. Watered yesterday evening, the soil was still damp, but a thin hard crust had formed on the surface, which needed loosening. He drew a small trowel from his waist and gently pried open the topsoil bit by bit, moving delicately to bypass any fine roots. After loosening the soil around one plant, he moved on to the next. The eastern sky began to turn white. He stood up and walked to the stream to fetch water. The stream water was icy cold. Rolling up his sleeves, he pressed the wooden bucket into the water, listening to the gurgling sound as it filled. Carrying it back, he used a ladle to water each plant one by one. The soil had to be soaked through, but it couldn't be rushed—rushing would wash out the roots. He watered very slowly, pouring each ladleful in three separate pours. When he reached the Hehuan tree, the sun was just peeking over the mountain peak, its first light piercing through the leaves and landing on the back of his hand. He paused, turned his hand over to look at it, watching the speckle of light sway in his palm. Then he continued watering. After watering, he grabbed a bamboo broom to sweep the fallen leaves. Last night's wind had blown down quite a few, piling them up on the eastern side of the garden. He swept them into a pile, paused to think, and didn't throw them away, instead gathering them around the roots of the Hehuan tree to cover the soil. The weather was turning cold; warmer roots would help it survive the winter. The sun gradually rose higher. He straightened his back, a patch of sweat dampening the back of his shirt. Everything that needed to be done in the flower garden was done. He stood and looked around: the peony leaves were glossy and dark, the newly sprouted branches of the Chinese herbaceous peonies were a finger higher than yesterday, and the soil beneath the Hehuan tree was covered smooth and even with fallen leaves. He walked slowly back to the house and fetched water to wash his hands. Water washed down between his fingers, stained with soil. He washed twice, dried his hands with a cloth towel, then sat under the veranda and poured himself a cup of cold tea.