In the year of famine, disaster fell upon our entire village.
My little brother was so hungry he no longer had the strength to cry, yet his small belly was swollen tight and shiny.
Mother held him in her arms and sat on the threshold, motionless, like a clay idol that had lost its soul.
In the pot was Guanyin clay boiled in clear water. Eating it made your stomach swell, and then you couldn’t pass it.
“Girl…” Father finally spoke. “Don’t blame your mother and me for being cruel… In the palace, in the palace there’ll at least be a mouthful of food.”
When the human trafficker came in, he brought with him a gust of dry, cold wind.
“She’s decent-looking enough, just a bit too thin and weak.
“Three pecks of millet. Not a grain more.”
I saw Father’s hand trembling violently as he pressed his handprint onto that sheet of paper.
Three pecks of golden-yellow millet were poured into the only broken grain jar in our home, making a soft rustling sound.
It was such a beautiful sound-the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.
My little brother would probably live through this winter.
