Wheat

Sullavan 孙德众 230110810

Autumn was coming. The wheat was ripe. The whole field was painted in gold. The warm sunlight illuminated the plump heads of grain and warmed the old man's heart with joy. A year of sweat and diligence had not been in vain. As he gazed at the wheat, bent over with laughter, he sat on the ridge and began weaving a stalk with a contented smile. Between his palms, through the dance of his fingers, a tiny grasshopper took shape, vivid and lifelike. His heart bounced happily, just like that grasshopper—He finally had a way to settle his wife's medical fees.

But heaven seldom followed man's wishes. The bumper harvest that year drove the price of wheat down and down, and the old man's heart sank with it. The money he got was just a thin stack of notes. If the hospital bills were a mountain, this sum was no more than several handfuls of dirt.

That night, he sat quietly by the hospital bed, listening to the beeping of the medical device, watching his wife's peaceful, closed eyes. Silently, he folded a wheat stalk in his hands, and soon, a delicate little lantern appeared as if by magic. “This was the first thing you taught me to make,” he murmured. “My clumsy hands could never make it as pretty as yours. When will you wake up and give me some instructions again?” He spent the night sleepless, and by morning, a few more lanterns and grasshoppers stood on the bedside cabinet. When the doctors and nurses came for their ward rounds, they noticed these exquisite little objects, took photos, and posted them online. They drew more and more attention. After learning the beautiful story behind them, people sought him out to place orders. Every night, under the dim bedside lamp, he wove: delicate birds; sturdy baskets; fields of wheat captured in frames. Donations mixed with payments. Slowly, tenaciously, the mountain of debt began to crumble.

Later, the surgery proved successful. She still needed rest and observation for a while, but she had returned.

One afternoon, sunlight scattered through the window, printing warm, bright blocks on the floor. He sat in his usual chair, a basket on his lap, wholly devoted to shaping the wing of a small sparrow.

A slight movement. He looked up. She had slowly raised the bed and was now sitting propped against the pillows. Bathed in the golden light, she reached toward the basket. She carefully selected a wheat stalk. She examined it, then began to peel away the loose, papery sheath at its tip; smoothing it until only the strong, glossy stem remained. She placed the prepared stalk neatly beside his hand.

He did not stop weaving. But his movements became more soft, grew more deliberate. Sunlight warmed the air between them, where dust motes danced. The room was utterly quiet, save for the soft rustle and snip of their work. No excited words, nor tears. It was just the two of them, as it had always been. She prepared the materials; he executed the final, tight weave.

He picked up the stalk she had prepared. “This one's a bit tender,” he said softly, his eyes still on his work. “Be careful with your hands”.

She selected another, held it up to the light. “This one will do,” she replied, her voice was gentle and composed.

He gave a slight nod. Sunlight enveloped them, holding the moment in peace and happiness. Their shadows reflected on the wall. The air was filled with the scent of dry wheat and sunshine. In his hands, the golden sparrow seemed ready to take flight into the free world where sunshine bathed it.