罗荣芬《送货》

When I was ten years old, I had the chance to accompany my mother on one of her delivery routes.

At that time, my mother lived with my younger sister, who was less than a year old, in an administrative village more than ten kilometres away from the county town. They stayed in the village's "store," and I could only visit them during holidays.

Over thirty years ago, the village store was known as the Supply and Marketing Cooperative. Its facade resembled the small shops people run in their homes today. The 10-square-meter room was packed with three-layered shelves displaying everything from needles and threads to salt, tea, sugar, axes, rubber shoes, cotton clothes and hats, bed sheets, towels, tea cups, iron pots, and aluminium basins. The customers were farmers from the surrounding villages, often arriving on rainy mornings along a path flanked by mountains on one side and a deep valley on the other. Sunny days were precious to them, reserved for weeding hillsides and chopping firewood in the forests. Released from their simple pens, pigs and sheep eagerly sought familiar wild grass and mud while hens led their chicks to bask in the sunlight.

My mother worked as a salesperson. On sunny days, she often closed the store and carried goods to sell in distant villages. At ten years old, I was strong enough to help her. My basket was filled with towels, matches, and fruit candies, while my mother carried heavier items like salt, brick tea, brown sugar, candles, and several pieces of salted pork, each weighing four to five kilograms. These items were not light. In our area, pork was covered with a layer of salt and no lean meat was called lard or suet. Besides the goods, my mother also carried my younger sister in a sling on her chest.

The store, known as Shuanglawa Store served nearby villages inhabited by Lisu, Dulong, and Nu ethnic groups. Each town had three to ten households, sometimes clustered together but often scattered deep within the dense forest. We walked along mountain paths and crossed rivers as we entered the village. The sound of water and birdsong accompanied us, but we saw no other people. I walked in front of the gentle, grassy sections; my mother led the way on the downhill, shaded sections through gullies. Her feet, with rolled-up trouser legs, stepped confidently on the narrow path bordered by pebbles. She didn’t avoid water and used her walking stick to clear the disorderly grass on both sides as a precaution against snakes and insects. Her basket blocked my view of her back, but I could hear her panting under the heavy load.

As we approached a house with a thatched roof and wooden walls, dogs barked from behind the alder trees. My mother called out, “We’re here! We’re here!” Two black dogs with tails tucked between their legs came up and stopped. We leaned our baskets against some upright stones. My mother untied the knot on her chest, placed my sun-flushed little sister beside me, and began selling goods.

Knowing the number of households in this village, we had brought just enough goods. By the end, only one piece of lard, two cakes of brick tea, half a bowl of salt, and dozens of fruit candies were left. Suddenly, a thick, smoky smell hit my left cheek, and someone tugged at my clothing. I was so startled that my hair stood on end, feeling like a stone with feet had moved beside me. In a daze, I sensed something emerging from the stone crevices. "Don't be afraid, girl. Grandma gives you pears. Take them with both hands!" My mother's voice snapped me back to reality. I saw a hunchbacked old lady beside me, her ten fingers severely crooked, barely holding two large yellow pears. I took them hastily, noticing her toothless smile as she turned to my mother.

It seemed there was a prior understanding. My mother placed the remaining piece of lard, the brick tea, salt, and fruit candies into a small bamboo basket behind the old lady. The old lady's eyes brightened, and her demeanour softened as if the salt and tea had rejuvenated her. The bones on her back seemed less pronounced.

The goods were worth seven yuan. The old lady, a five-guarantee household in the village, occasionally received aid from other villagers. She usually traded chickens and eggs for daily necessities when my mother delivered goods, but she offered two big pears this time. The sales had to match the accounts, and my mother couldn't produce the seven yuan. I remember it being offset by a single bed sheet—a pure cotton sheet with a sky-blue base adorned with peonies and phoenixes. My mother had longed for it, saved enough money to buy it, but had never used it. Now, she had to put it back on the counter for sale. I heard her whisper, "The shortage of seven yuan will be made up by the end of the month."

That night, my mother spread out an old bed sheet to mend. The hut, illuminated by a kerosene lamp, seemed to wander in the dark valley. The smell of fruit candies wafted from the wooden counter.

When I miss my mother, the scent of her hand and the cheek she wiped her sweat off often brings a bittersweet feeling. And, of course, I remember those two pears as big as small bowls.