"Song of the Seven Sons" and "Beijing Welcomes You" are the two songs that left the deepest impression on my childhood. Even now, I still find myself humming them. They are like a silken thread, pulling me back to my childhood.
In 2008, the grand Olympics meant nothing to my young self. All I knew was that my father had gone to Beijing to be part of that great celebration, that the melody "My door is always open, welcoming the world with open arms" lingered in the air, that everyone loved one another, and that every face around me beamed with happiness. To this day, I still regret falling asleep during the opening ceremony and missing what turned out to be the most hopeful Olympics of all.
A year later, my mother cried every night. My parents took me to hospital after hospital, traveling far and wide across the country, from Beijing to Shanghai, until finally I was cured at Xijing Hospital. I suspect that's also why they later settled down in Shaanxi. It was in that hospital ward, on the twentieth-something floor, that I first stayed in a high-rise building. My father pointed at the endless stream of cars below and said, "See how those cars look just like ants?" Yes, life is as small as an ant, but even today, I still want to find meaning in that tiny existence. I remember nothing about the surgery itself, nor what it felt like to be under general anesthesia. The doctors told me to avoid strenuous activity for years, but I still ran and jumped my way out of the hospital. My parents didn't stop me—they just smiled. Back then, I was simply overjoyed to finally leave a place that had trapped me. Now I realize: that was the moment the weight they'd been carrying finally lifted from their hearts.
As I grew a little older, my family was well-off. My father simply asked which school I wanted to attend, and off I went. In music class, I sang over and over, "Do you know that Macau is not my true name? Mother, I have been away from you too long." A child doesn't understand what national reunification means. All I knew was that I couldn't bear to be apart from my mother—the mother who cried day and night because of me.
My mother never took me to KFC, but every Spring Festival, without fail, I got my one and only KFC meal of the year. As a kid, that was the greatest joy imaginable—it could make me happy for an entire week. Looking back now, I realize how easy it was to make my childhood self happy.
My childhood was lucky and happy. Lucky that everyone around me was well-off back then. Lucky that my family had the means to cure my illness. Lucky to have parents who loved me so deeply. Lucky to have a family that cherished me. Lucky that in that era, hope shone on every face. It is because of that luck that I was happy, and it is that past luck and happiness that I now look back on with longing—longing for the self who could be satisfied so simply, the most innocent and guileless version of me.
My mother always says, "Don't judge your father by his goofy demeanor. He climbed out of the mountains step by step, built everything from nothing, and earned everything he has today."
But then the world changed. It became complicated, suspicious, and full of doubt. My father was cheated out of everything in a business deal, then got dragged into murky waters and ended up millions in debt. The so-called "friends" stopped helping him, and even scared off my brother's girlfriend and her whole family. Our family fell on hard times. Fortunately, we all pulled together and spent ten years climbing out of that shadow—but my father was no longer young.
I had my rebellious phase, but the love my parents wore on their sleeves, the joy of my childhood, and the parents who refused to give up on me even then—all of it made me love this family and this world. It carried me through the darkest days, helping me step out of the shadows one step at a time, just like my father did.
I love this world, and I want to love everyone with gentleness.