In the Spring of 2023, I boarded the plane bound for China with an uneasy heart. In my mind, Shanghai has no real spring. Even though it was already March, I never associated this city with phrases like “the warmth of blossoming spring.” All I could remember was the vibrant golden sunlight shining on skyscraper windows, reflecting a lively energy. After moving to the United States, I could no longer witness such scenes. The springtime sunlight in America has a touch of laziness, like someone in middle age on the verge of balding, spreading faintly through thin clouds over endless plains. I live in a northern area, where the snow has yet to melt and you can’t see any new buds. Presumably, those fresh green shoots are trying to break through the thick snow, eager to show their vigor to the world. People often quote, “Grass grows, orioles fly in the second month; willows by the river, drunk on spring’s mist.” But in America, our old ancestors’ observations clearly do not apply.
My mother had driven me from my school all the way to Boston Airport. Along the road, I barely looked at the scenery. Apart from the brown wasteland that stretched on endlessly like water, there was nothing to see. Yet I had already lived in that dull place for more than half a year! The airport loomed above me like a giant steel beast, blocking out the sunlight and pressing down on everyone below. I walked quickly on the dim stone path, pulling my suitcase just like the other travelers. That evening, we arrived in San Francisco and stayed overnight, getting ready for our flight back to Shanghai the next morning.
While I waited at the boarding gate, I kept hearing announcements: non–Chinese passport holders must go to the counter to verify the validity of their visas. Then came a small add-on: “as you know, China changes every day.” A rush of heat crept onto my face; I wanted nothing more than to hide. I felt as if my country was being mocked—“changes every day” sounded more fitting to describe two people in love. This kind of personification did not strike me as lively at all; rather, it felt humiliating to be in such an awkward position. I realized that politics and life should be kept separate, neither interfering with the other. What I missed was my homeland, a way of living, not some compound personified noun or verb. I deeply hated politics and everything about it, wanting to flee into a Peach Blossom Land like the ancient poet Tao Yuanming. But the more I tried to ignore politics, the deeper it sucked me in.
I jumped up from my seat, my hands clenched into fists, desperately wanting to tear off that mask of shame, even if it left my face bloody. I boarded the plane in that state of mind, unable to sleep much. I drank several cups of coffee, only feeling sleepy once I finally landed in Shanghai.
Even then, I forced my eyes open wide, wanting to take a good look at this familiar place, to see how it had changed, where it had grown younger or prettier or taller.
Twilight covered the skyscrapers; the sky was almost completely dark except for a shallow, translucent shade of orange near the horizon. The buildings stood just as close and orderly as when I left, but like wilting flowers, they seemed lifeless. The lights inside weren’t on, so the pitch-black glass literally shut out my gaze with a towering wall. The skyscrapers’ shadows fell diagonally across the elevated roads, no longer as though they had countless stories to pour out to me. Instead, they stood silent, as though unwilling to say a single word. A thick barrier seemed to rise between them and me. I pressed my hand to the glass, hoping to feel their warmth. I could sense they were like children who had been mistreated, silently hurting and unable to speak, the same with anyone they encountered. The once mighty beasts of steel no longer had a heartbeat I could detect. There were far fewer cars on the elevated highway than before; even at six or seven in the evening on a Saturday, only a handful of cars drove toward the setting sun. In a night as bright as day, Shanghai felt like it was about to become yesterday’s memory. I could no longer find the bustling, traffic-filled Shanghai I remembered from time-lapse videos.
Now, Old Shanghai is becoming the Old Old Shanghai, and Shanghai is turning into Old Shanghai, while New Shanghai is taking its place. It’s like a great-grandfather close to his final days, entrusting everything to the grandfather—so natural and inevitable. Before long, the “New Shanghai” we speak of will also become the “Old Shanghai” in the mouths of a newer generation. Just like how those of us born in the 2000s, once the “little kids,” will someday become grandparents.
Sitting in the car with my father, I said,
“Shanghai feels lifeless now.”
He paused and stared at me in surprise.
“Yeah, the economy’s in a slump.”
After we ate out and came home, I found my grandmother from my dad’s side there. I hadn’t seen her in a while—I couldn’t even remember exactly how long, maybe two years, maybe three, maybe more. I couldn’t recall her age. When my father told me she was already seventy-five, I felt a bit stunned. In my memory, Grandma was the person I remembered from second or third grade, laughing with the housekeeper, cooking together. Back then, she came to stay in Shanghai for a while, and one day after school, I saw her the moment I opened the door. I remember how surprised I was and how her face was brimming with kindness. At that time, I might not even have been as tall as Grandma; or maybe I was about the same height. But after people turn fifty, the older they get, the more their height shrinks, while kids grow taller. So in my memory, it wasn’t so much the wear of time as it was the transition from me looking up to her, to looking directly at her. Now she has to look up at me.
When I returned home, Grandma wore the same affectionate smile as before, showing few traces of time on her face. Like most elderly people, though, she’d become more talkative with age. About seven or eight years ago, she wasn’t so chatty; she liked sitting on the couch alone in the early evening, watching health programs on TV. Now, she’s grown quite fond of talking. I usually don’t understand most of it—it’s mostly mumbled words to herself, with health advice making up the bulk. But I can vaguely sense her loneliness.
Loneliness has a smell, like the scent of old age. An elderly smell grows stronger as one ages, but the scent of loneliness weakens with age. In school, if a kid is bullied, left out, or has no friends, that loneliness is so obvious—like the smell of an old tree root, impossible to hide. Anyone could tell right away: “This child is suffering loneliness.” Then as you get older, in your teens or twenties, the loneliness smell becomes lighter. It only becomes noticeable when it has built up to an extreme level—when it turns into some form of disease. Once you get into your thirties or forties, loneliness seems optional. People hardly notice it; even if they do, they just smile and say nothing. By that time, the loneliness has stuck to you like a parasite in your bones. No amount of perfume or soap can wash it away. If you look back on your teen years when loneliness weighed you down so much that it actually made you ill, you might find it funny or childish, blaming yourself for making such a fuss over nothing. Then, as you grow even older, loneliness becomes increasingly faint. The children have strong wings now; they want to spread them and leave home to seek opportunities. They grow impatient with the aging parents, eager to get away. The elderly at home have a faint smell of loneliness, but children can’t smell it, nor can younger adults, nor can those in their prime. Only their peers may sense something is off. And in the extremely old age? I really don’t know what loneliness is like then. I’m sure it exists—why else would you find an old man or woman strolling alone on a sunny afternoon, sitting on a bench in the park with eyes closed, feeling the world around them? Even though the smell of loneliness becomes lighter, the loneliness itself becomes the opposite, growing more overwhelming with age.
I think of the saying:
“When young, one doesn’t understand the taste of sorrow. Eagerly climbing high,
just to compose new verses and force words of woe.
Now older, knowing too well the flavor of grief, one hesitates to speak.
And in the end just says, ‘Oh, how cool is this autumn breeze!’”
The “old person smell” is like drawn curtains that block the view outside, hiding the loneliness within. Still, I can sense traces of Grandma’s loneliness in her eyes. I can smell it in her wrinkled skin, but maybe I was just born with a keen nose.
As soon as Grandma saw me, she wouldn’t stop talking.
She first told me to watch out for the flu. Initially, I didn’t even know what she meant by “the flu.” I don’t follow the news much abroad and had little idea of the situation at home.
Then she told me about her electronic keyboard lessons. At first, I was amazed. She’s seventy-five, after all, just starting to learn the piano, and her fingers are already stiff. How well could she possibly play? She went on to say she’d spent six thousand yuan on two years of online video courses. Listening to that, I felt sure it was a scam—six thousand yuan for two years of video lessons didn’t sound like a reliable teacher. I took a look, and indeed, it seemed like a rip-off. I told her so. I could clearly see her discomfort, but I felt compelled to speak my mind. I knew I was hurting her pride, yet I also worried she might be getting cheated.
She fell silent for a moment, then started telling me stories of my father and my uncle when they were young. She repeated over and over, “Your uncle and your dad have been so fortunate in life.”
I couldn’t tell if this was a sort of bittersweet yearning—an old mother born right before the new regime, lamenting her own fate while also feeling happy about her children’s good fortune—or if it was some leftover hope for her now grown children to one day return to the nest in a wishful fantasy.
After a while, Grandma went outside. Maybe she realized I wasn’t all that eager to listen, or maybe she was worried her loneliness was smothering me.
The next day, I paid a visit to my old middle school. I felt the building shared a resemblance with my own predicament—a seemingly unchanged shell concealing a parasite of decay that was quietly wearing down its strength. The weather those days was dreary; the sun seemed slack, halfheartedly shining as if on a stroll. Thick clouds hovered low overhead, reminding me of the layer of cheese foam on a cup of milk tea, weighing down the atmosphere in a stifling way. I never expected to arrive as some kind of celebrated alumnus, but it had only been a year since I graduated. I already felt I was strutting around, like I was from the school’s first graduating class. Going to the U.S. for high school was like a carp leaping over the dragon’s gate—it put me in a totally different category, as if I belonged to another world. The faces of people who might still remember me drifted away like deer in banana leaves, or like clouds of smoke. I gave a speech to a few students, but felt I barely touched on any real points. Then I went out to eat with a teacher, who talked to me about all the changes going on.
According to the teacher, the school was going in a better direction every day, and the students were steadily improving, but…
I could only sigh, raise my glass, and finish my drink in one gulp. Well, there’s nothing we can do—the economy isn’t looking good, and it’s pulling everyone down with it.
Before leaving, I gave my teacher a T-shirt as a gift.
Since returning to China, I have often found things puzzling. In a global city like Shanghai, why are there so many incidents I had never heard of before? In a hair salon, a customer started quarreling with the hairdresser over some trivial matter. At the airport luggage claim, a group of people were cursing each other about cutting in line. Even at my old school, the former warmth seemed covered by an invisible, transparent barrier.
A slowdown in the economy, I suppose. Everyone is feeling it.
