A journey back to my hometown

Wuhan is my favorite place. My mom was once a flight attendant, and my dad a businessman. They were never home, so they shipped me off to Wuhan to live with my maternal grandparents when I was 2. When my mom switched jobs and my dad became an investor, I left Wuhan for Shenzhen to live with them, but my love for Wuhan never changed.

Wuhan people are known for being short-tempered as the city has a reputation as one of the four “traditional furnaces in China,” a reference to its sweltering summer heat. People don’t just talk; they shout and scream at each other. However, this attitude doesn’t signify ill feelings towards others; they just try to be loud and assertive to earn respect.

Here I am, back in Wuhan to visit my grandparents during summer vacation. To prepare a family reunion dinner, my mom, grandparents, and I are going food shopping at a mall near our home.

I haven’t visited this mall in seven years, and everything seems smaller than I remember. The escalator that once seemed like a towering mountain, the once vast maze of a parking lot now a tiny backyard — everything is unchanged yet somehow different.

At the grocery store, I see all my childhood favorites: the ClassyKiss yogurt, frozen dumplings, and the ubiquitous Laoganma chili sauce. Even the shelves and the shopping cart we push have the same appearance but with a weathered touch.

When I was young, my grandfather would plop me in the shopping cart as we traversed the supermarket, with baguettes and packs of mung bean noodles finding their way beside me.

My grandma, an excellent cook, paid meticulous attention to every food detail. While she scrutinized the expiration dates on every box, my grandpa would push the cart with me tucked inside, following her around.

She examined every watermelon like a scientist conducting a lab test: studying the stripes on the rind and tapping it to listen for the right sound. I couldn’t fathom her magic, but she never failed to pick the sweetest melon for us to splurge on after dinner.

Grandma was also a skilled negotiator. Despite my height surpassing the 140-cm limit to ride the mini merry-go-round, she always managed to convince the operator that I was remarkably tall for my age, which was true. So I got a ride all right. Seven years have slipped by, and we find ourselves back at the mall, purchasing the same foods, pushing the same carts, having the same discussion about watermelons.

In the past, I yearned for my grandma to pick up the pace; now I have to remind her to take her time and walk slowly. The signs of aging in my grandparents are evident — the slow shuffle of their steps and the silver strands that now adorn their heads.

Inside this old grocery store within the mall, I match my pace with Grandma’s, walking patiently alongside her, linking my arm with hers. I regret hurrying her in the past, wishing time could stop or rewind. As we wander the aisles together, I realize the most valuable gift I can give them back is my time, as we cherish every instant amidst the watermelons and frozen dumplings.