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That memory attracted me to a nostalgic strain of music that father used to playing on the Er Hu. The longest note made me start to believe more miseries than anger were held in him. The damage of his fingernails was a window to his poor soul. Only the window was shut. He chose to hide the subject of all the wounds of all various kinds, because he himself was the subject.
That belief was strong. It became stronger when a disastrous thing happened days after the Friday call. Mother had confi ded to us that father had been constantly suff ering from his knees and often fell down on the toilet. Only then did we know this was his secret and he had kept it for a long time. He couldn’t even stand up after squatting. How could he, then, have climbed the Lotus Hill that awesomely well?