Lost…

Nestled on a dusty, red dirt road, battered by sun and rain, stood my mother's old house, where she single-handedly raised her children. Every time I returned home, I would stop by, looking around, searching for my mother's presence, for the familiar things of the past that now seemed so strange. Now, the road has been paved and is clean, the old house has been replaced by a sturdy two-story house, surrounded by a fence, with a gate adorned with a trellis of white and pink bougainvillea that gazes wistfully at strangers. I tried to find the old gourd trellis, the old electrical wire that stretched from the end of the alley to the trellis where I used to dry clothes, the patch of mustard greens my mother planted, but I couldn't find it. Now, the yard is decorated with elegant rose bushes, and the corner where the mustard greens used to grow is now a fish pond with trickling water. The scenery now is much more beautiful and luxurious than before, yet every time I look at it, my heart aches, and I hastily drive away to escape the sadness that follows me.

"Mom!" Tears blurred her glasses. "Mom, it's been six years. Six years since you followed Dad to the land of white clouds, six years that flew by in the blink of an eye. Six years is enough to transform a peaceful countryside into a bustling town, to turn dilapidated single-story houses into multi-story buildings, to transform rice paddies and gardens into rows of houses... Only the pain remains unchanged. Only the pain hasn't changed in the slightest. Orphans, at any age, feel the same emptiness and loss."

After Mom passed away, my older brother sold the old house and moved the ancestral altar to his and his wife's house. He said leaving it there wouldn't do any good, and since they were the eldest, they would take care of the memorial services. So, the house of our childhood was gone. The new owners demolished the dilapidated house and built a new, more spacious and beautiful one. Many times, I wanted to reproach my older brother for selling away our childhood, for selling away the memories of Mom. Was money really that important to him? But then I stopped myself. After all, Mom was gone. My older brother had his reasons; the old house was dilapidated, and no one would live in it if we rebuilt it. The three of us all had our own families and our own houses, so building a new one would only be more expensive. We could worship anywhere, so it was better to bring Mom and Dad back to his house so they could be closer to their children and grandchildren, rather than staying in the old, lonely house. How could I blame him? No matter how beautiful the past was, it's just the past. No matter how much we regret it, no one can bathe twice in the same river. Let's just let things take their natural course.

Every time I return to my hometown, wandering along the roads, everything feels so strange. Is this the place where I was born? Is this the place where I walked to school twice a day? Is this the place where I used to catch crabs and snails? Everything seems unfamiliar. I feel like a stranger in my own birthplace, asking for directions to my relatives' houses. Suddenly, I realize, have I truly lost my roots? A wave of sadness washes over me, making my heart ache.

Mom!

Oh, childhood!

Oh, my homeland!

Since when did I lose everything? Since when did I give up everything? Since when?

The question lingers in my mind, unsure where to anchor itself to find an answer. The question deepens the wound, gnawing at my sorrow. Whom should I blame now? Is it the circumstances, time, or myself? I don't know why, I only know that now, in my old hometown, I'm lost in a labyrinth of sadness, nostalgia, and a nagging conscience…

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