When we were young children our great grandmother used to sit us down next to the window. She’d tell us to close our eyes and listen to the rain closely. We tried to hear the touch of every droplet; we’d press our ears against the cool of the glass and listen to earth being cleansed. “当你喝的水, 记得的春天” When you drink the water, remember the spring. She’d exclaim. We fiddle with her wisdom and chewed our tongues for the meaning. When we lost our youths our great grandmother’s words became a distant whisper. When it rained we carried only our decorated umbrellas, we thought of spring only under its twirling aegis. No one ever dared to sip the water—since villagers who live near the 淮河盆地 Huai He basin became ill—, spring became the forgotten season in the city. [Jak Mussington]
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