Slavery
The Willow and the Branch
My father was once the best-known peddler on Qingyun Street.
He walked from lane to lane selling everything from thread to malt candy.
Then he became addicted to opium.
He sold Mother back to a brothel and stuffed my little sister and me into the baskets on his carrying pole.
The last time he shouldered that pole, the rest of our lives swung from either end.
The Cry of Moss
Mother ascended to heaven.
She left me two things: an old yellow dog and a manual for cultivating immortality.
Oh, and one promise.
“Whenever someone beats you, shout your mother’s name three times, and I will come save you.”
I never shouted.
Father had seldom used his fists lately; he had heard that girls in our area had suddenly become valuable, and a wounded one would fetch a poor price.
