A Single Swallow

by Zhang Ling

My father said it had been many years since he’d seen such ideal weather, with lingering fog and a mix of wind and rain and sunshine each arriving on time, as if they’d arranged everything over dinner and wine, all agreeing to a schedule, nobody quarreling with anyone.

To the eyes of a girl who’d lost her father, everything lost its color.

Time is a miraculous thing. It can wear down the thorns of emotion, gradually eroding them to dust, and from this dust, a new sprout grows. That sprout is the power of life.

One day, she simply understood how to face shame directly. She stood upright, turned around, and met it head-on, only to find that the shame that had followed her so persistently was just an empty shell. Once it had been punctured, it completely deflated. It was only when she faced it head-on that the shame lost its power.

If we dissected the immense body of that war, we’d find each of us holds a small part in our hands, and that is how it becomes a personal war.