Snow Falling in Spring by Ming Li — Read

CHINESE NEW YEAR WAS MY FAVORITE HOLIDAY, BUT NOT IN 1970. ON THAT NEW YEAR'S EVE, DI DI AND I SLOUCHED IN THE CORNER OF OUR DIMLY lit living room, half asleep. Lao Lao and our other relatives huddled around the stove and talked in hushed voices. From time to time, I would glance at the door.

In the past, our New Year's Day had been a time of celebration and feasting. It was a day when the oldest, and especially the youngest, were spoiled with gifts from members of our extended family. At least twenty guests-including relatives, friends, and friends of friends-usually shared the occasion with us. The female members of the family, with Lao Lao in charge, would cook the whole day-filling our kitchen with giggles and laughter and the fragrant smells of pork stew, chicken soup, spicy tofu, and juicy dumplings. Di Di and I, together with our cousins and friends, would sneak in and out of the kitchen in a collective effort to sample the delicacies before they were served. At Lao Lao's house, the dining table would be extended to the full length of the sitting room-every square inch covered with delicious dishes. The first toast would be made to Lao Lao for good health and long life, followed by joking toasts for everyone else. After dinner, we would all urge my youngest auntie to sing while Da Jiu accompanied her on his flute. Sometimes we even talked Lao Lao into picking up her bamboo lute.