Written by Anita (Sicen) Hua
In this dream, I have been taken back to the Spring of 2010, when I was running across pebbled roads, over arched bridges, and in between rows of blooming jasmine flowers. I mingled with the vim and vigor of my surroundings, my cheeks covered in mud and the rims of my shoes abraded from too much activity. After a while of tireless dancing and hopping around, I stopped in front of a door. Its knob was almost as tall as I was, and the whole door was covered with papers of cursive Chinese calligraphy – my “phenomenal” works of “impressionism,” as I would profess them. My heart pumped with excitement to greet the face behind that door, a face that I longed to see. Every time I came, I would batter the door and yell, “It’s me! It’s me!” until Taipopo fetched the door open.
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