Tian Mi Mi (甜蜜蜜)

Talking about my encounter with him in Yunnan, at Bingzhongluo.

He was riding a third-hand motorcycle with a 150cc engine.

The muddy road on National Highway 219 didn't slow him down.

I revved the throttle to the max and stopped, crossing paths with him.

I thought this guy seemed pretty tough, lit a cigarette to joke with him.

Looking up, I found he was an old man, his shoes rubbing blisters on his feet.

He said it was fine, sturdy like the cave dwellings of Shaanbei men.

Sixty years old, his eyes sparkled with the sincerity of a sixteen-year-old.

He took off his sneakers, stuffing his socks with toilet paper.

He spoke of the '83 old mountain battles, how he lost three toes.

In '86, a comrade wanted to propose to his sister.

It was a bit far, but the parents were hoping for a grandson.

After meeting that girl just once, they clumsily got married.

He wanted a simple life, but eventually they fell deeply in love.

However, after coming back from the battlefield, his expectations weren’t met.

He decided to say goodbye to his hometown and return to Guangxi with his wife.

In the south, life wasn’t prosperous but still comfortable.

In '93, his precious son was born, albeit a bit late.

He thought everything had settled, living a comfortable daily life.

Until last year’s winter solstice, the hospital notified him of his wife's passing.

After three years of treatment, the family had run out of money.

When young, he was full of life, never expected to leave so early.

After thirty-some years of love, now their son also has a family.

He arranged her funeral, then rode off on his bike.

This old single-cylinder Suzuki, he used to ride with her all the time.

I asked him if he had moved on; he smiled and said he was fine.

He divided three acres of mango land in the suburbs of Chongzuo.

I asked him how sweet the mangoes were; he said they were as sweet as life.

After a restful night at the guesthouse, I pondered until dawn.

The next day he sent me a WeChat message saying he was preparing to head north.

Yearning for thoughts to be like the wind of Tibet.

Blowing away the memories of my late wife, longing and melancholy.

Later, I returned to Beijing and got busy for three more years.

Too many worries in between slowly reminded me of Tibet.

The memories of meeting that old man surged in my heart.

Then I opened my phone to ask how things have been lately.

He seemed a bit surprised by my sudden call.

This year, mango sales have been poor, with continuous heavy rain in Guangxi.

My son took out a loan to buy a house in Nanning, working with his wife.

My son has also had a baby, taking turns with his partner to look after him.

I wanted to take him to the provincial capital, but the old man can’t sit still.

Having lived in the countryside all his life, he still has to tend to the mango trees.

He said he still wanted to visit Xinjiang while he can still walk.

I said sure, no problem, let's plan to meet at Sailimu Lake.

His old motorcycle retired; his child got him a new Honda.

He said if he doesn't go a little crazy now, it will be too late; how many more years can he ride?

I told him not to be so pessimistic, it might not be certain in the future.

If your fate isn’t strong, how could you have escaped from Vietnam?

I didn't expect that there would be more to my story with this old man.

He sent a box of mangoes to Beijing through someone.

I opened the packaging and washed them, thinking that the old man really is quite generous.

I opened one, tasted it, and thought, 'Mmm, it's really sweet honey.'