We did everything to persuade the gatekeepers to put out their cigarettes and sneak us into Tiger Hill after closing.
In China, where there's a will, there's always a way. And we willed our way in.
Playing host to my brother's mission companion, Shelby.
Tiger Hill at dusk.
The dark finally kicked us out of the park. We prowled around the underbelly of the bridges to the rumbling din of traffic overhead; our conversations of US military presence in Iraq echoing. The pedestrians had all pointed us to the same direction to the tourist lanes, straight down the cobblestone path, but we faltered mid way because we were unsure of all the run down houses with screeching doors that lined our sides. There was so much life, raw and unadorned, in the dinner time TV gatherings, in the butcher's call of end-of-the-day prices, and in the giggling children as they ran out for fresh air once last time before being tucked into bed.
But some lights were not dimming, probably not until late into the night, because the ladies inside were busily sewing beautiful evening gowns for those who would buy them without a second thought, threading through their exhaustion and stitching together hopes and possibilities for the little ones.
We also looked up and paused. While the sun illuminated all to show harsh reality, the moon was kinder, softening the rough edges of the crumbling rooftops, casting warm, rich halos on tired bridges.
Nights like this gave romantics of old more courage to write poetry. I relied on my lenses instead of words.
Guardian lions. I need one of those.
Shelby + Lesley. Best wandering companions.
After traveling to Mexico, Cambodia, and the US in the last month, switching desktops for backpacks or presentation microphones, home -- Suzhou -- still reminds me what catching my breath feels like.
No comments:
Post a Comment