Chapter Seventy-Two: "Where Wild Roses Bloom, There Lies My Home"

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“Ever since I was young, I loved squatting on the ridges of the Xus’ fields, watching the wild roses.
It was the early spring of 1977. The wind still carried the chill of frozen earth, and when it swept through the thorny brambles, it would toss up fine dust that struck my face, much like the stray threads my grandmother would flick away as she sewed shoe soles.
Axiu squatted beside me, the ends of her braided hair dusted with wheat straw. Her fingertips hovered half an inch above the thorns, softly counting the new shoots just breaking through the frost.
“Thirteen,” she murmured, her voice as gentle as morning dew. I leaned closer. Frost clung to the reddish-brown brambles, but the fresh buds, bright green, pushed up so boldly that the ice melted a little around them—timid, yet unwilling to shrink back into the cold.
When Brother Zhu appeared from behind the wheat stack, I saw the ends of Axiu’s braid tremble. Mud clung to his trouser legs, and he gripped a length of dry wheat straw, scratching crooked circles in the dirt.
“After Qingming, the brigade will need to fertilize the fields,” his voice rougher than the wind. The wheat straw poked little holes in the mud. “I’ll ask the team leader to assign me a job closer to your family’s land.”
Axiu didn’t reply, but the tips of her ears flushed red, and her fingers quickly counted the fourteenth bud.
I knew what they were talking about. Everyone in the brigade was saying that Brother Zhu would soon send a matchmaker to Axiu’s house. On the way home from work, he always followed behind her. If he saw that her basket of dried sweet potatoes wasn’t full, he’d quietly slip a few handfuls of his own sweet potato vines into hers when she bent down to adjust her trousers.
As soon as the March wind softened a little, the brigade’s loudspeaker crackled to life, announcing that the county needed laborers for reservoir construction. Brother Zhu signed up. That day, he squatted by the wild roses, his back to the sun, casting a long shadow tangled among the brambles.
Axiu pressed a cloth bundle into his hand—a pair of handmade cloth shoes. I’d seen her working on them, three nights by the oil lamp, her stitches dense as stars scattered across the fabric. “Seven layers of cloth—won’t bruise your feet on mountain roads,” she said, voice trembling, twisting the hem of her jacket until her knuckles went white.

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Brother Zhu clutched the shoes, running his thumb over the tiny stitches, silent for a long while. When the moon climbed high, he suddenly reached out, lightly touching the end of Axiu’s braid. His fingers barely brushed her hair before pulling back as though pricked by a thorn.
“Half a year at most, and I’ll be back,” he said, pointing to the wild roses. “Look at these buds—when I return, they’ll be in bloom.”
Axiu nodded, the wheat straw on her braid swaying in the breeze, echoing her answer.
The next day, when the truck rumbled to life, Axiu and I stood beneath the old elm at the village entrance. The wheels churned up yellow dust that stung my eyes. I saw her grip her hands so tightly her nails dug into her palms. The wild rose brambles quivered in the wind, as if the new buds shivered with them. Suddenly, Axiu squatted and began counting again. When she reached thirty-two, a tear fell into the dirt, forming a tiny whirlpool that the wind soon dried away.
One evening in late spring, the team leader walked toward Axiu’s home, letter in hand, his steps heavy as lead. I was by the wild roses and saw Axiu come out into the sunlight—her face pale as paper. The team leader handed her the letter; her hands trembled as soon as she touched it, and the paper fluttered to the ground. I recognized the words: “Died in the line of duty.” “Martyr.”
Axiu bent to pick up the letter, pinching the edge between her fingers, and did not rise for a long time. The wind whipped through the brambles, their thorns grazing her trouser legs, but she didn’t flinch. She remained crouched there until dusk crept over the fields. The wild rose buds had grown half an inch, sheathed in tender red skin.
At harvest, Axiu worked the fields as before. The sickle flashed in her hands, severing wheat stalks with crisp precision. Sweat trickled down her temple into her eyes; she wiped it aside with her sleeve and kept cutting. The team leader told her to rest, but she shook her head, “Brother Zhu said: never delay the harvest.”
The wind rustled the sea of wheat, sounding like Brother Zhu’s laughter. The wild roses were in bloom, pale pink petals dusted with wheat awns, trembling gently in the breeze. Each time Axiu passed, she’d reach out to brush a petal, her touch so soft as if not to hurt it.
The next spring, Axiu was to marry in a neighboring village. The groom, a carpenter, was a quiet man. On the wedding day, he stood beneath the old elm at the village entrance, holding a wooden box with a hairpin inside for Axiu.
She did not wear a red jacket, only a blue cotton blouse faded almost white, with a wild rose pinned in her hair—picked from the field’s edge the night before. As she passed the wild rose thicket, she squatted once more, counting the new buds, though this time she did not speak. Her fingers only tapped the tips, as if bidding farewell to an old friend.
The year Axiu married out, the wild roses bloomed abundantly. She and Brother Zhu had kissed behind the brambles, but now only the brambles grew wild. People say love is brief and forgetting is long, but every year the wild roses sprout new buds, burying old stories beneath the soil. In the dusk, I seemed to see Axiu’s shadow merge with the brambles, but could not tell which was thinner.
By Qingming of 1978, I was once again squatting on the ridge, watching the wild roses. The wind was the same, carrying the scent of frozen earth and the scratch of brambles. Axiu had come back, standing where she once counted the buds, her hair now coiled in a bun, secured with a wooden hairpin carved by the carpenter, etched with tiny patterns. Her hand brushed gently over the brambles—last year’s thorns blackened, the new shoots bright green, still dusted with frost.

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“Auntie, what are you looking at?” Er Zhu, the cowherd, came over, his whip wrapped in red cloth, reminiscent of the cotton at the end of Axiu’s braid in years past.
Axiu smiled, fine lines at the corners of her eyes. “Just watching these buds—see how well they grow.”
Er Zhu pointed at the thickest branch. “That one was there last year. Frozen all winter, and still sprouted new buds.”
Axiu nodded, letting her finger trace the bark. The winter’s cracks still marked it, yet the new buds insisted on pushing through, segment by segment, as if determined to break free from all the stifled days of winter.
In the distance, the reservoir flashed like a giant mirror, deepening the blue of the sky. The team leader called for fertilization from the ridge, his voice drifting over with the wind.
Axiu pulled a piece of brown sugar from her cloth bundle, offering it to Aunt Zhang passing by. Aunt Zhang took her hand, saying the carpenter treated her well, that laughter now lived in her eyes.
Axiu listened, but her hand never left the bramble, her fingertips stroking the buds where the frost melted cool and damp into her skin.
As she neared the village entrance, Axiu turned for a final look. The wild rose brambles braced themselves in the wind; the frost on the thorns had melted, the buds glistened green and fresh in the sunlight.
She took out a handkerchief, unfolding it to reveal a newly picked bud, the astringent scent seeping through the cloth.
“I’ll take it back for the child to see,” she said quietly. Only then did I realize she had a son, whose eyes and brows echoed Brother Zhu’s, and when he smiled, a dimple appeared at the corner of his mouth.
As she left, I saw Axiu press the handkerchief with the bud against her chest. The wind lifted the hem of her jacket, like wild rose petals fluttering in the air. The wild roses on the ridge stood firm in the wind, their green buds reaching toward the sky, climbing ever higher.
It was much later that I understood: those trembling new buds in the wind, those petals refusing to bow to frost, those dewdrops clinging to thorns at dawn—all were the words Axiu never spoke.
Hard days will pass, just as the buds resist the cold and roots survive the drought. As long as hope lives in the heart, new sweetness will emerge.
The wild roses send forth new branches again; their thorns may prick, but cannot pierce the tenacity of life. We stumble through the years, bruised by stones, swept by unseen currents, yet in the darkness we find light, and in moments of indecision, stumble upon new paths.
It is like the snow in Lao She’s stories—biting cold, yet full of hidden tenderness.
Even now, I love to squat on the ridge and watch the wild roses.
Each early spring, a woman with her hair in a bun returns, bringing a child with bright, crescent eyes. They squat by the brambles, counting new buds. The child clutches the fresh green shoots, their juice staining his small fingers. Axiu stands beside him, laughing, sunlight warming the fine lines at her eyes, as gentle as light upon a wild rose petal.
The wind sweeps through the brambles, carrying a quiet rustle—the sound of days speaking, telling of those who have gone, those who remain, and the hopes hidden in the new buds, year after year, endlessly.
As dusk falls over the fields, I often think: perhaps life itself is a thicket of wild roses—brambles the trials, new buds the passage. The earth, in its silence, plants every answer in the steady growth of each passing year.”