Memories - A Piece of Original Writing

Below is an excerpt of a piece of original writing. Set in ancient China, it shows a character reminiscing on the memories of his mother before she passed.

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“What is causing you trouble? Perhaps I can help?” Quan Lai muttered, brush discarded for the preference of gently tugging her fingers through the soft silk of his dark locks, watching as she began to twist a tight braid against the side of his head.

“I can’t figure out how to do this.” The little Bao mumbled back, slightly dazed by the image that the sun gave, as it painted the sky in shades of gold.

“Do what?” She hummed gently, finishing the braid on the left side, before quietly moving to the right.

“I know what I want to say. I feel it, but I fail to find the words.” He huffed, and she gave a quiet laugh at that.

“You already have met with the trouble of all great writers, and yet you are still just my little boy.” Soft teasing made him huff once more, and he turned his eyes back to his paper.

“You do not let me travel enough. I am stuck here while others see the world. How can I ever explain my thoughts if I do not know how to do so?”

She frowned softly then, pausing her braiding for a moment to reach her hand down to gently grasp his own, turning it, so his palm faced upwards.

“The world out there is too ugly for the beauties you write. You would be tainted; your beautiful view of the world would be ruined by harsh realities.”

“How am I ever supposed to write something people like if I cannot relate to them?”

She smiled then, tilting her head so she could peek over his shoulder, gently rubbing into his palm with her thumb.

“That is exactly how. People like to be lied to. To give them something they like, you must give them something they can have hope in. Something that isn’t the horrible outside world.” He fell silent then, so she gently encircled him with her other arm, bringing her own hand to rest upturned on the opposite knee to his.

“Do you see the difference between our palms? Would you describe them to me?”

He paused before peering over at her own, giving a soft nod.

“Your hands are rough, and there are all these little creases. They are like pathways. And these little bumps are like mountains. Your hand is like the world I see outside. Your skin is the ground, your lines are the pathways, and your bumps are the mountains. Mine are...Soft. Smooth. My lines aren’t as deep; I have no bumps. Like a painting. A copy of your hand, but not the real thing.”

She laughed softly then, gently nuzzling his face with her nose.

“You did not disappoint me; that was very poetic of you. But I would like to give you a much simpler answer, rather than the one you gave, though they are effectively the same.”

She spoke softly, and he turned his face to see her.

“Your hands are smooth and soft. Beautiful. You can give nothing but a gentle touch. My hands, however, are calloused and hardened. Overworked and horrible. Damaged by the outside world. Do you see? How different not only our hands are, but our perceptions of them? I wish for you to see a more beautiful life; can you wish me ill for such?”

He shook his head gently, frowning.

“No. I can’t.”

His mother returned her hands to finish his braid, giving a soft nod.

“As long as I remain your mother, there will be no mountains, no pathways, no rough ground on your hands. You will remain my beautiful son with your beautiful outlook on life.”