Dad’s childhood house has just been decided to be demolished. These kinds of decisions are always acted upon the objects they found interesting, upon the people who seem to possess these objects. 

I don’t remember much about this house. My mom was born in the city, and she married my dad, a village guy. Dad doesn’t look village though. He has the appearance of a lady’s man. I once asked him, were you popular among the girls at your school? He went, I wouldn’t say otherwise. 

Mom didn’t like villages. It was backwards. It still is. When mom and dad took me to dad’s house for the New Year’s celebration, she was asked to sit with all the other women and children at a table with half the height of a proper one. Women could not eat with the same status as men. She decided not to go there again. And she kept her words. So I didn’t really go either. 

Thus I cannot say much about it. I have some vague memories about an unappealing toilet that was just a deep hole into the ground. I had to walk pass a dog that looked like he didn’t enjoy strangers releasing themselves in the toilet of his house. I had to be accompanied by someone from the family everytime I had to pee or take a shit just for this reason. They would wait for me, not really outside, because we both were. The toilet had a roof, so it provided some shelter for pee-takers during rain and snow, but if it was windy, it wouldn’t have more functionalities to offer. 

During the few times that I was actually there, I remembered being chilly almost all the time. Radiators were non-existent in the villages, and people generally burn coals to endure the winter. Coldness could lure people into making silly decisions, like shutting their windows and doors during the night while buring coal. Dad was nearly killed once, being very warm with the coal buring all night, absolutely no draught sneaking inside from any cracks of the windows. 

The house was made of wood and brick. The wooden roof smelled moldy, probably due to ventilation problem. It had a Chinese structure, which means all the rooms in one household connected into a circle, and the doors all face towards the center of it. The central area bounded by the roomss were a garden. The main gate faces the main room, indicating the highest status of the people living in it, usually by the exclusive standard of old age. 

Dad’s house was a little different in that there wasn’t a main room in that area, so grandparents lived in the one on the right side. I guess rightness is still higher than leftness, but this is just my conjecture. Their room was symmetrical. Walking inside, there was a table with the shape of a cube, and on each side there were two chairs roughly with the shape of two cubes stacking on tope of each other. The two chairs faced towards the door. Grandparents were supposed to sit on the two chairs facing outwards to talk to their inferiors. Pictures were hung on the walls, with symmetrical constellations. There probably were some ones capturing the reminiscence of the cultural revolution, but that I don’t really recall. The two sides of the table-chair centrality were communal areas and grandparents’ bed respectively. This table was that proper dining table at which only men can eat. 

I cannot say everything about it. I cannot even describe it from the perspective of an insider. Whenever thinking about the condo of my grandparents from my mom’s side, I attach it with a personal connection, as if thinking about a body part of mine. It is my extention. But dad’s house has always been far from me. I was a sporadic visitor. Looking at their lifestyle with curiosity and dazzlling. 

Dad’s parents passed some years ago. He’d always had a strong connection with them, but especially after he parted with mom, since he didn’t have more family members other than his parents and me. Mom’s parents love him, too, but he had to keep an arm’s length. Dad used to be a painter, and I used to hang a lot of his paintings in my room. When they parted, mom packed dad’s things and put them outside of our condo. He didn’t come to pick them up. Mom didn’t take them back, either. 

Dad texted me some days ago, saying he was going to travel back to the village for some demolition process. He stopped visiting it regularly after his parents passed away. 

He doesn’t have much belongs due to the fact they were left outside of the condo in which we used to live together. I remember going back to that condo once after mom had sold it, and took a look at the area where dad’s belonging’s used to be. It was occupied by something else. 

The vicinity of his house was planned for some reconstruction project. The village used to be a historical town, and it was decided the original architecture should be rebuilt in order to remember this fact.

Antiques demolished for a reconstruction of official antiques. 

In a court, a judge would declare a statement false without material evidence. In a scientific world, my memory is this kind of narrative. All the materials are easily demolished by invincible force. Only the mind, along with the memories, keeps archive, retains history, celebrates love and courage. I trust it and cherishes it. With my pen, I materialize them, until it is proven false due to the lack of evidence. 

I saw two naked people through the windows. 

It was early November, but the river bank of the city was still a good track for lazy runners who don’t know exactly in what manner their night run is going to maximize the benifits to their souls. I was among one of them who took this opportunity to satisfy my daily demand of self-achievement, and along with the water ran I. 

To science illiterates, the flow of water is a contingent fact. I have never realized river eventually goes to a container until one day, when the sun was clear, I could see very far. The container for Rhine has a long way to go, but every drop of water goes with the flow, and neither of them feel they are the reason for the power of the vehicle. All of them thought they were merely passengers. How wrong can one be, when everyone else is wrong at the same time? It must’ve felt secure to be wrong. But at the same time, it depends on whether being right at the circumstance is polite. 

Imagine I were a drop of water in an overly developed society, I would’ve been very careful for my epiphanies. Would people think I am barbarious if I take a rest on a stone and think for a while, without making eye contacts to every acquaintance? Would I be abandoned by modernity? I cannot imagine the horror. If I could choose, I would’ve rather been a bridge at such a place. Immobility goes hand in hand with civilization. And bridges can still smirk under the guise of their stony faces.

Until I saw two naked people in the light of their spacious condo. The lights were very dim, if I recall correctly, because their bodies were breathtaking, bathed in that raspy color. But they nonetheless stood out perfectly, because their neighbors either put down the shutter or didn’t switch on the lights at all. Night time is supposed to be reserved for reflection for successful people with torching humility. The more they spend time with themselves, the more they look like innocuous people who happen to be elites. They wish they were less smart, but their hands are tied. 

The naked people were naked gratuitously. They window looked at the river bank, and eyesights went both ways. There was an undirected edge between the window and my spot, which had been a graph structure I had just learned from mathmatics that afternoon. The nakedness was thrown onto me, because I didn’t even try to peak through any barriers. There were none. I looked up and they were just there, like two angels exchange banters, and they didn’t bother to take on the wings on the tenderhooks. Too much dust, they thought. They’d flown to Japan once, and had learned their etiquette. 

They stood face to face, but with a farely long distance. They showed themselves from two windows, and as it was a big condo, they were unnaturally away from each other. The windows were large too, allowing for a good fat surface to receive my eye contact. From afar, I could still recognize they were a woman and a man, and their bodies were angelic. The man was at the east and the woman west, and I knew it because she was at the upper flow of the river. Her breasts were bulbous, dropping downwards due to the same reason water falling down the east. They were talking, but their manners looked like they were right next to each other, which I imagined was the benefit of the reverberation of the empty room. 

The man was painting the woman, but that I had to infer from his movement below the window sill. His arms made a commuting movement without a steady rhythm, which led me into guessing that it was a drawing process. He looked up very often to exchange words with the woman, and she wore an serene facial expression with sporatic laughters. I didn’t understand why he was naked too. And since his body was as perfect as hers, and if he had to be naked, why didn’t she paint him at the same time? It would’ve been a more economical allocation of the beauty resource. 

It was not necessary that they let us see, but I appreciated it. The water, I assume, appreciated it too. Each drop of the river had a time range of flowing through the eyesight of those two windows, and I bet they’d look back when time and space had passed. The two bodies were among the most well-built ones I had ever had the chance to stare. I hoped they let the curtain open only because they were proud. I hoped they thought they were Roman Gods. I hoped they fell in love with the image of themselves like Narcissus. They deserved that. And the fact that they let me see made me respect them in a holy way. 

Or they could be angels, like my previous hypothesis. They let me see as a way of revering their designer, and he painted her because they wanted to analyse the craft. 

Were there some drops of water, stopped on a piece of stone below the window, and rested there, for some entertainment? Did they refuse to change the formality of pronouns when they asked their neighbors to pass them onto the shore? Have they decided to ditch the civilized politeness in exchange for a heroic action which, rumor has it, did harm to one’s soul? 

I stood by and watched, until I left. 

姥姥得了失眠症。

她生活在首都旁边的一个北方城市，是首都的供给站。上世纪发展棉纺，姥姥响应号召进了纺织厂，和同厂子的小领导，我姥爷，结了婚，成为了一名光荣的工人阶级，也分到了棉纺厂职工宿舍的两室单元房，就这么一直生活到了现在。

几十年后，这个宿舍里住满了退休的纺织厂工人，至少二十年前，大家还不会租房子住的时候是这样。宿舍里有一个公共澡堂，澡堂外的前厅是三个给人理发的转椅。澡堂对面有个小球场，旁边是医院，再往外走就是一整条街的市集。每天清早都会有各种青菜鱼肉小贩铺一条破布就开始叫卖，旁边摊子上还会挂上几个半身人体模特，上面套着一些颜色饱和度很高的时髦衣服，除此之外，可以搭配着卖的胸罩、短丝袜也一个不少。再往前走，是一所学校，从小学到高中的教育都可以提供。到了这儿，才算走到了这个棉纺宿舍的尽头。从我记事起，姥姥的日常生活中走到的最远的地方就是宿舍对面新开的大超市——还能想起来当年开这个超市时的轰动，大家都在超市里拿起东西就给小孩子吃，丝毫不知道购买流程是怎样，可把小孩子们高兴坏了。

姥姥的故事全都发生在这个宿舍里。50岁的时候她迷上了跳舞，每天傍晚时就从家里出发，不带姥爷，自己跑出去和伙伴儿们跳一晚，那段时间家里的关系很微妙，但后来不知怎的，慢慢地也就不去了，一些可能发生的家庭危机也就不了了之。她的妹妹住在隔壁一栋楼，再后面住着弟弟和弟媳，最好的朋友是隔着一条巷子，家庭条件很好的大红姥姥，我小时候可没少吃她们家的橘子和糖果。

慢慢地，这个宿舍变老了，连带着里面的一切。澡堂是首当其冲的受害者，因为每家每户都装上了热水器，自然也就不能洗完澡舒舒服服地坐在转椅上理个发了。早市因为太吵，被清理出了宿舍，姥姥嫌太远，干脆买什么都往超市跑。医院也拆了，也不知道是因为医疗条件根不上，还是别的什么原因。足球场和舞厅自然也慢慢地消失了。第一次让我比较震惊的新闻是隔壁家璇璇的奶奶死了。她是个很和善的老太太，璇璇是我很好的朋友，每次我和璇璇出去玩儿的时候，她都缩着腰在阳台下面低矮的小窗户里面给我们挥手再见，那天她们的3单元门口挂上了白色的布花，还有一直摆到人行路上的花篮，当然，这景象在之后的几年也不太少见了。姥姥的弟弟是在前两年走的，他走了之后，姥姥和不太亲密的弟媳断了来往，听说她们搬到了一所郊区的大房子里去住。再后来，脑血栓，心脏病，还有一些她们也叫不上来的病，带走了更多的人，每次我回去，最大的新闻已经不再是谁死了，而是谁得了慢性病，但是活到了现在，也不知道他吃了什么保健品。

姥姥的失眠是今年才严重起来的。一开始，我只是发现姥姥给我打电话的时间越来越晚了，从9点，到10点，有一次我十一点多想第二天跟她打个电话，怕打扰她又怕忘记，就发了个短信说明天聊，结果没过两秒钟就接到了她打过来的电话。

她会给我聊一些失眠时的故事。我最近听到的版本是这样的：

“昨天夜里躺在床上怎么也睡不着，听着收音机翻来覆去地到了凌晨两点。突然听见外面有人讲话，我又烦，又好奇，一下就躺不住了，穿上衣服裤子就往西边阳台走。”

“谁在说话？”

“嗨，我起来往窗户外面一看，是住在拐角楼扫垃圾家的傻小子，一边扫一边自己跟自己说话，嘟嘟囔囔的。他爸妈都是农村来的，爸爸挺老实，他妈嗓门大，俩人脑子都挺清楚的，谁知道怎么生了这么个傻小子。傻小子干活慢，扫几下就得找个地方坐一坐，平常都得他那大嗓门妈妈带着扫，谁知道今天让他自己一个人出来。”

“没人想给他看看病吗？”

“谁知道，可能治不好吧。看完这傻小子扫地我又回来换上衣服，跑到卧室的阳台往外边看。我现在都能记住每家关灯的时间了。三楼的一家老是整宿的不关灯，我睡不着就老往他家看，结果谁知道昨天晚上他家把灯给关了，这真是奇怪。”听完这句我笑了笑，觉得点滑稽。姥姥一年多前得了老年痴呆，经常跟我抱怨看完几分钟的天气预报都记不住。

她接着说，“看完对面那几家，也就五点了。我赶紧起来把衣服都手洗了，洗完天也亮了，我就干脆起床了，一整晚也没合眼。”

说完她把洗好的桑葚往我身前推了推，笑了笑，不再说话。我只是隐约记得家境很好的大红姥姥家的女儿也是个傻子，据说已经三十多岁，靠着家里炒股赚的钱还能过活，之前去超市帮人收集小推车，结果看见吃的打开就吃，也就不干了。除了这个之外，在棉纺宿舍还经常能看到其他身体残缺的人，手指畸形的人，我也不知道他们发生了什么，但是他们每天照样早晨起来锻炼或者做做小买卖，感觉好像什么也没有发生过。

姥姥的大半个生活都发生在了这个宿舍里，姥姥的失眠生活也发生在了这个宿舍里。傻儿子也是和傻闺女也是，不关灯的隔壁楼三楼也是。这个宿舍老了，傻儿子的爸爸妈妈也老了。我的姥姥，这个骄傲的棉纺厂女工，也老了，她不再固执地把头发一直染成黑色，她也不再拿出来50几岁穿的花裙子，也不再给我看炫耀过很多次的年轻时候扎着两只粗粗的麻花辫子的照片。但是那些东西一样也没丢，都整整齐齐地放在那个80几平方的两居单元房里，和她一起生活了一辈子。