Prose by Sydney Sanscartier
Art by Linda You
She wore the dress only once. It still shimmered faintly in the dark, the gold embroidery catching in the fading light, hidden from prying eyes. Folded in cedar and silence, the dress held the memory of a love spoken softly and answered only by distance. Lián Bǎo, he called her that day. My precious Měi Lián Bǎo. My treasure, my love. Times had been rough and jobs scarce. Even so, they remained hopeful. They had saved up enough to buy passage for one. Canada was a distant promise, a land of job security, financial stability, and of a better life. And if he could go, she would follow.
Standing on the docks, beneath a sky the colour of old ash, she held him close, one last time before he boarded the boat. The biting wind tugged at her sleeves, but in the centre of the bustling chaos, she stood still, desperately clutching every second. He held her close to his chest. She memorized the steady thud of his heart, the faint salt of sweat, the roughness of his palms worn from work, into which she pressed a red silk scarf. Amidst the muted colours of the docks, the vivid scarf shone like flames. Her voice was low when she spoke, barely audible over the crashing of the sea. Only ten months, she said. Then we’ll be together again.
She wrote a letter each new moon, her brushstrokes neat and careful. Every response, she savoured, tracing her fingers over his name. Wèi Qiáng. Her Wèi Qiáng. Every letter started in the same way: My dear Lián ér. Not a day goes by that I do not think of you. Through these letters, she learned of his new life and job in Canada. A handyman in the mines. He spoke of the increasing tension between the Chinese workers and the Canadians. She could tell he had spared her the finer details—it was not good to badmouth his boss, even through letters. She too sent him news, of a part of himself that he had left behind in China. Of their child she would bear. Only five months, until they would see each other, and her Qiáng ér could hold his child for the first time. She kept the letters in a small box in her bedside drawer, neatly stacked, an extra bit of rough twine tied to keep them together.
Months stretched on, each one a quiet echo of the last. The plum tree outside her window shed its leaves, the branches turning brittle and grey. The neighborhood dog had its second litter and its puppies no longer ran from her. The letters continued to arrive, and although the papers became worn with handling, the words never lost their warmth. Yet, even as she waited, the silence felt suffocating, the air heavy like the silence before the storm. Her belly swelled with life, and, in that space, she felt the absence where his touch should have been. She felt the weight of watching eyes. The neighbors’ silence grew heavier and their knowing stares more frequent. They knew of her husband across the sea, that he had left her with a child to carry and a promise to keep. She sent the letters, folded with the same care and neatness. Every time she heard the postman’s gentle knock, she imagined his hands reaching for the worn envelope, his fingers brushing over her name written across it.
As the plum tree flowered once more, its delicate buds unfurling to reveal soft white and pink petals, the air sweet with their fragrance, she brought her son into the world. She named him Wèi Zhì. He would carry his father’s family name, although they wouldn’t meet for many more moons. She chose the name “Zhì” for the hope in her heart, wishing for him to grow wise and strong. She sent her Qiáng ér a letter, telling him of the son she bore. A piece of him now living in the world. As time passed, his letters began to slow, the words more measured, as if something unseen had settled over his life, pressing down on the space between each line. She could feel the distance between them stretching, each letter a fragile thread that threatened to break. Still, oceans apart, she clung to them, holding his words close to her heart, imagining his rough, work-worn hands tracing the letters just for her, day by day.
When the plum tree began to drop its leaves once more, she received the news: Canada had closed its borders. No new immigrants would be accepted. And now, with a child in her arms, even if the borders had remained open, Qiáng would need at least another ten months of wages to afford passage for both her and Xiǎo Zhì. Despair settled over her like early winter fog—quiet, heavy, and without end. She did not know when the borders would open again.
As Xiǎo Zhì toddled around their small bedroom, she found herself drawn to the wooden box beneath her bed, the one holding her ceremonial wedding dress. Gently, she lifted the lid. The faint scent of cedar rose to meet her. With reverent gentleness, she traced her fingers over the delicate gold embroidery and cool, smooth surface of the crimson silk catching the light. The memories trickled back softly, the low murmur of voices, the warm brush of his fingers, the slightly sweet warmth of wine lingering on her tongue. She remembered the lotuses woven into her hair, her namesake, a symbol of purity and harmony, the hope they had carried into their marriage.
Her son grew fast and strong, just as she had hoped. Yet, even with the joy of watching her son thrive, an ache lingered, a quiet hollowness where her Qiáng ér should have been. An ocean lay between them. His letters had slowed to a trickle, but still she clung to each one, as though his words were a lifeline stretched thin across the sea. She could only see his face in her dreams now, his care-worn expression softening as he gazed at her with all the love she remembered. But each morning, the image vanished like dew kissed by sunlight, gone before she could hold it.
Years passed. The letters stopped. Xiǎo Zhì grew tall, his voice deepening, his steps steady and strong, nearly a man now. Even so, he had never heard his father’s voice, nor known his warmth or kindness. He only knew his father through stories of a kind smile, rough but gentle hands and a faded picture, taken the day of his parents wedding. Still, she still clung to the letters, their edges worn and ink faded. Every night, she would read through them, trembling fingers tracing over his name. Wèi Qiáng. Her mouth formed his name softly, echoing the memory of his rumbling voice whispering hers. Měi Lián. How she longed to hear him say her name.
Though the letters stopped arriving, it never stopped her heart from leaping every time she heard the soft patter of footsteps along the road or the gentle tap of a visitor at the door. But the knocks were always for someone else, never what she longed for. That flicker of hope faded every time, leaving only the suffocating weight of silence. She heard whispers, stories of men crushed in cave-ins, names that never made it home. Of wives dying, waiting for their husbands to send for them. Of children growing up with only stories of their fathers, just like her Xiǎo Zhì. And so, little by little, she felt the hope fray inside her. It was not a sudden loss, but a slow undoing, hope pulled from her heart like a silk thread unravelling in tired hands, leaving only the weight of silence and memory where belief once lived.
Her Xiǎo Zhì was of marrying age now, a young man with kind eyes and strong hands. Perhaps it was time for her to move on. She could no longer recall the exact timbre of her
Qiáng ér’s voice, the softness with which he spoke her name. His face lived only in fragments at the edges of her dreams, dissolving before she could reach them. Time had loosened the tight knot of grief, but the thread of it still tugged at her heart, all these years later.
With the moonlight spilling through the window, bathing her room in a soft silvery light, she sat alone, the box of letters resting in her lap, heavy with memory. Outside, the old plum tree cast a delicate shadow that quivered in the silent breeze, painting shadows that moved like a silent poem. She opened them one by one, her fingers tracing over the faded ink. The edges were softened over the years, the paper worn thin and creased from being unfolded, read and held too many times to count. In each letter, each word, there was a piece of him, a tenderness and a promise. They carried the story of a love that had weathered silence, time, and the vastness of oceans. But, she knew that, like every story, this one had to come to an end.
With gentle hands, she placed each letter in a small brazier, the flames licking at the letters, curling the edges. The crackle of the flame was like their story being told one final time. The smell of burning paper filled the room, faintly sweet, faintly bitter, like the memory itself, souring over time. The flames cast golden patterns on her ceiling, the dim flickering light an echo of a wedding day long past. She watched the smoke rise, the words, love, and memories, curling and dissolving into ash. It was only when the last page had vanished, curled into ash, that she whispered his name.
Wèi Qiáng. My Qiáng ér.
He was gone.
Not just far. Not just silent.
Gone.
And although she would always carry his quiet presence in her soul, the letters, their love and memories bound to paper and ink, had been given to the fire and set free.
THE END