On the first day of the holiday, Hangzhou welcomed visitors from all directions. The West Lake scenic area was particularly bustling, with a total visitor count of 510,300, a 1.11% increase compared to the same period in 2025. Photo by Jiang Zhiqing.
During the holiday, some people packed their bags to explore mountains and rivers, some stayed home to relieve fatigue, while others, filled with longing, rushed back to their long-unvisited hometowns. We move around frequently, our locations constantly changing, but no matter how far we travel, the牵挂 and sense of belonging in our hearts never change.
Seized by a sudden impulse, I decided to tidy up the old bookcase闲置 on the third floor of my老家. An old envelope suddenly slipped out from within a copy of "Modern Chinese." Picking it up and opening it, I discovered it was actually a家书 my father had written to me thirty-one years ago. The pale yellow stationery, the light blue ink, the elegant handwriting, the warm affection, and the gentle tone instantly made my eyes burn. That yellowed era, those尘封 memories, rushed back at me, and my eyes welled up immediately.
Due to work, my father was often away from home. He worked successively in Xiaoshan, Xinchang, Shengzhou, Huangyan, Jiande, and other places, until his retirement in Shaoxing in 1996. Today, these distances might not seem far, but in an era with extremely scarce public transportation, my father's journey home was incredibly long. Without telephones,家书 became the only way for the wanderer and his family to comfort each other.
In my memory, my father's letters arrived with great regularity. Towards the end of each month, the letter we, mother and her two sons, eagerly awaited would always arrive on time. The postal code on the envelope was always the familiar "311331," the recipient's address and name were always "Shangxu Village" and my mother's name, while the sender's address changed intermittently—sometimes somewhere in Hangzhou, other times somewhere in Shaoxing. If we received a letter from father at the beginning or middle of the month, we could generally guess that his work location had changed again. This was my father's habit; whenever he was transferred, he would always write home immediately to inform us.
In every家书, there were two sections to which my father always devoted considerable ink, still memorable to this day: first, entrusting my mother to convey his greetings to my grandmother on his behalf, reporting on his sons' situation over the past month, and never forgetting to remind mother to be sure to describe grandmother's life and physical condition in detail in her reply; second,关切地 inquiring about my mother's well-being, from her daily labor and her sons' studies to social interactions, asking with meticulous care, afraid of missing anything. The letters always instructed mother to take care of her health, suggesting that non-urgent, heavy tasks could be put aside until he returned home on leave to do them.
My father's letters always reported the good news and withheld the troubles. Working away from home,孤苦伶仃, geological surveying involved跋山涉水, working underground, and working through the night—the intensity was high, the负荷重, the risks significant. Each move to a new place brought the hardships of travel and the difficulty of adapting to a new environment, which were quite agonizing. Yet, in my father's letters, one only read about the good food and fun: Huangyan's honey tangerines, Shaoxing's stinky tofu, Jiande's Daci Rock, Xinchang's Great Buddha Temple; of course, there were also local cultural stories, like Qiu Jin's former residence and the Lu Xun Memorial Hall, which I became familiar with from a very young age.
The letter in my hand was dated May 13, 1995. The timing and the content of the叮嘱 were somewhat different from usual. "Son, in just over a month, you will be taking the college entrance exam. As your father, it is somewhat regrettable and I feel quite guilty that I cannot be by your side at such an important moment. But I believe you can understand the特殊性 of my work. I have discussed it with the leaders at the brigade, and they suggest that when filling out your college application preferences, you could consider地质类 schools and majors. As a child of an employee, firstly, you could receive extra points on the exam; secondly, upon graduation, you could be prioritized for job assignment. Of course, any choice should尊重自己的内心; my opinion is merely a reference, and you need not worry too much. In this last month or so, I hope you can immerse yourself in your studies while also relaxing your mind and body, approaching the exam with a light load."
The postal code and address on the envelope were the same as always, but the recipient's name had been changed to mine. This was the first letter my father had written directly to me. I could understand the复杂的心情 he must have felt while writing it.
As for the replies, initially, my mother would ask the village's Teacher Xu to write them for her. After receiving my father's letter, mother would take the letter along with new stationery and an envelope to Teacher Xu's house, sometimes bringing some homegrown vegetables or fruits. Teacher Xu would read the letter aloud, and mother would listen. She would occasionally interrupt, asking Teacher Xu to repeat something she hadn't heard clearly or to explain a word or phrase she didn't understand. After Teacher Xu finished reading, mother would begin recounting, sentence by sentence in authentic Changbei dialect, what she wanted to say in reply. Teacher Xu would then bend over the desk, carefully recording it. He would sometimes remind her, "It's already three full pages, that's enough, that's enough." But how could three pages possibly contain all of mother's思念 for father, or all the thousands of words she wanted to say to him?
When I was in third grade, my mother one day suddenly said to my brother and me with great seriousness, "It's time for you two to start writing the replies to your father." From that day on, my brother and I were thrust into the role. It was still mother who dictated, but after all, we two brothers were young and our knowledge shallow; we often failed to express what mother intended. Many nights, under dim lamplight, mother would darn shoe soles while絮絮地 talking about what she wanted to say to father; the two brothers would do our utmost to use our稚嫩的文字 to record every piece of mother's叮咛. When we encountered a difficult character to write, we would scratch our heads in frustration; if we had no choice, we would substitute pinyin or use a homophone. But we firmly believed that father would surely understand.
After finishing the letter, reading it back to mother was essential—when it captured her meaning perfectly, she would smile knowingly; where there were discrepancies, she would softly提醒 us to make corrections. This writing of replies continued for ten years. I progressed from copying characters clumsily to becoming proficient, from being apprehensive to handling it with ease. Through imitation, I learned the format of letters; through reading and replying to letters, I honed my writing skills. More importantly, between the lines, I came to appreciate the弥足珍贵 of family affection.
Photo by Miao Wu Bu Ting
Now, having been a father myself for many years, I always want to pass on the珍贵 I gleaned from those家书 to my own child. On Children's Day the year my daughter turned fourteen, on a whim, I wrote her a letter titled "Written on June 1st," thinking to use this novel method to have a uniquely meaningful dialogue with her. Unfortunately, it did not win her favor. It's no wonder; nowadays, faster and more convenient ways of communication emerge one after another, and letters have long since drifted away from our daily lives. I can understand and accept my daughter's reaction. Yet, in my heart, there ultimately rises a faint, almost imperceptible sense of melancholy—a mode of communication our generation holds dear might, in their eyes, be merely outdated text.
The paper is short, but the affection is long. Holding this yellowed letter in my hand, reading those sentences long since committed to memory, I seem to see again every家书 my father sent home over the years, and those稚嫩的回信 I painstakingly wrote stroke by stroke back then. I rummaged through boxes and cabinets, wanting to find a few more of my father's letters, but after several house rebuilds and moves, those letters had long since disappeared. It's such a pity! And such a regret!
Fortunately, my father is still alive and well. Although most of those letters are lost, the person who wrote them is still here. And the牵挂 and warmth those letters carried have long since melted into my bloodstream, becoming a part of my life.
A single家书 holds the traces of time and carries the most朴素牵挂. Those changing locations, those辗转的脚步, are no match for the unchanging眷恋 deep in the heart. This holiday, has your location updated? Welcome to share in the comments section.
The "Night Reading" column looks forward to welcoming more writers. If you enjoy reading by lamplight at night and adding fragrance with your pen, if you happen to have new insights, new discoveries, or new experiences you'd like to share, if you have unique见解 in a particular field, we welcome you to become a contributor to "Night Reading." Submission email: hangzhoufabu@qq.com.
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