It’s a day poised to be filled with meek sunshine and slow wind. Slow but assured, like the pace of a gigantic Trojan horse marching through the crack of time between summer and autumn, secretly impregnating the air with moist and chill. Another typhoon will hit the coast tonight but hopefully I will be landed by then, with Maomao probably half-asleep in my arm already but still teary for having to inexplicably leave 爺爺奶奶 again. I struggle every time to make him understand it is not an arbitrary cruelty tyrannically imposed on him by ME. He insistently demands knowing WHY, with increasingly confusion and defiance, as he instinctively senses the aggression of the habitual resignation to the rut of life into his cognition process.
Wang Maomao 