2026.3.13 周年記
2026.3.13
I. The Anniversary
Last night, while Bill was having dinner in the breakfast nook, I was in the adjacent family room doing some stretching. Bill asked me, "Tomorrow is March 13th—do you know what day that is?"
I’ve spent my life living in a bit of a muddle, never able to remember those "special" dates: family birthdays, my own birthday (the fact that I forget my own is a comfort; at least it proves I’m not being biased), or wedding anniversaries. It was the same back in school with history; I’d cram famous dates into my head right before an exam, only for them to vanish without a trace the moment it was over. Bill is the opposite. He remembers these dates with perfect clarity. Often, he probably feels like he’s performing a monologue, simply because his "co-star" in life can’t seem to remember her lines.
Bill gave me a second to react. Seeing no response, he declared that it was the anniversary of our arrival in Toronto. On March 13, 2000, travel-worn and weary, we set out from Dalian, crossed mountains and seas, and traveled ten thousand kilometres to begin a new chapter of our lives as immigrants in Canada.
I actually do remember this date. Perhaps it’s because Bill has repeated it so many times over the last twenty-odd years, or perhaps it’s because of that sudden spring snow in Toronto back in March 2000. I remember standing on the balcony of a high-rise condo building at Yonge and St. Clair, bathed in a flurry of snowflakes. As I watched the unfamiliar city below slowly being covered by a thin layer of white, a cloud-like tenderness rose in my heart—a gentle sentiment that took root then and has never left. I was twenty-eight then, still young, harboring an earnest longing for the brand-new life about to unfold. In those days, because of youth and high spirits, even the cold and the hardships were painted in warm colors.
Twenty-six years later, my face has aged and my hair has greyed; my youth is gone. Yet, my love for Canada and Toronto remains constant—unchanged and ever-deepening.
II. The Stirrings of Spring
It has been a grueling winter—extreme sub-zero temperatures followed by relentless, heavy snowfalls. Then, suddenly, in early March, the temperature soared, hitting 17 or 18 degrees Celsius. The towering snowbanks could no longer hold their ground; they collapsed with a splash, and meltwater flowed everywhere, gathering into streams that sang as they raced toward the storm drains. The lake has thawed, its water’s calm. Along the shore, the weeping willows stand tall and straight, casting reflections upon the water, their green silk swaying with supple waists.
The snow has vanished from the backyard and the front. Blades of grass are poking through, and the soil in the vegetable and flower gardens lies bare, moist and soft. Here and there, I see clusters of pale yellow, bead-like granules, perfectly uniform in shape and size—almost as if they could be gathered to string a necklace. I posted a photo to my gardening group for an answer, only to find they were droppings left by rabbits foraging in the snow during winter.
A gardener’s spring arrives earlier than everyone else's. I put on my rain boots and trek through the muddy ground to inspect the front and back yards. I know that garlic is hardy against both cold and drought; the cloves I buried before winter began have already sent up tall shoots. The fuzzy buds of the magnolia tree shimmer in the sunlight, their plump bellies filled with energy stored since last summer.
The rhododendrons, however, were a surprise. Both the large-leaf and small-leaf varieties are covered in green. The small-leaf rhododendron has tiny, delicate leaves—clearly new growth that emerged quietly against the early spring chill. But the large-leaf variety looks fully dressed, exactly as it did last summer; its leaves are broad and thick, a deep, even green, stretching out with such composure that it makes me daze for a moment. Was that really winter that just passed? Is this a plant that just survived bout after bout of bitter cold (the coldest winter in decades!) and storm after storm? Did such hardship truly leave not a single trace?
After the initial daze, a feeling like rising mist welled up from my heart: a mix of joy and deep emotion. Such a plant is truly touching—it reminds me of those elegant elders whose eyes remain clear and passionate even as they approach their seventies.
The woods feel different now than they did in winter. Without the snow, the space suddenly feels vast. Everything—the soil, the trees, the creek, the birds—seems to have entered a "ready" stance, holding its breath with wide eyes, waiting for the seasonal explosion of the next moment. Just watch: green branches, verdant leaves, grass, flowers, the sound of water, birds, and people will soon fill this prepared space. Every form of life, like a ripening balloon, will become full and abundant ……
Postscript
The sun was brilliant this morning when I started writing about these warm spring days. By the time I found a moment this afternoon to finish, a blizzard was raging outside; another snowstorm has arrived.
Looking back at the words I wrote above, it feels like a dream—a "spring dream" that leaves no trace. I don't know what to say. It’s not that I don’t understand; it’s just that this world changes far too fast.
(Translated by Google Gemini and modified by cxyz)
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