有時候，在獨自一人的晚上，記憶會悄然爬上心頭，讓你模糊地感到有些若有所失，
就象有時看日落時的感覺。在開關打開後，它象一盞燈，照亮了你心中某個被遺忘
了的角落。記憶，是一種甜中又帶點苦的感覺。

今天，Jack在IM中說，“你聽說過郭蘭英吧？”
“誰？”
“就是唱我的祖國的那個，很出名的。”
“啊，想起來了。”我說。“我的外公有次告訴過我。”

於是，記憶的開關被打開了。

。。。

我陪外公坐着---那個帶着我一起去青山公園餵鯉魚的外公；那個吃油條時，總要蘸
着豆漿才仔細地咬一口的外公；那個在陽台上種着怒放的紅海棠，讓我們在灰暗的
街上能一眼看到的外公。我倆坐在燈光灰暗的走廊里，深色的凳子上有着不明不白
的條條溝溝。這家醫院不是我所熟悉的醫院的樣子，空氣中飄着一種陌生的氣味，
但有醫生模樣的人們在走來走去。走廊里有很多條凳，凳上三三兩兩地坐着看病的
人。

我坐在刺鼻的醫院氣味里，耐心地陪外公等着。我想讓外公知道，我是個好孩子，
雖然我照相時總是不愛笑。我很想愛外公---他給我買了條項璉，上面的玉墜是我的
生肖---但是我想愛他是因為我高興有了一個外公，雖然只能是短短的兩星期。

他跟我聊天，我很認真地聽着，他的話我並不總能聽懂。他說的話跟我爸媽不同，
是一種只有幾百人會說的方言。我盡力地聽着，因為聽不懂自己外公的話是很可悲
的。你想讓他們知道，你不是從美國回來的小陌生人；在下次吃飯時，也不要老是
不忘記地說，“豆豆在美國長大，要不要喝可樂？”

“你聽說過郭蘭英嗎？”他說。

“不清楚。她是誰？”我問。

“她是個傑出的歌唱家。你爸媽以前一定唱過她的歌。”他開始唱了起來，帶着點
蒼老顫抖的聲音，因為長年吸煙而有點沙啞，“花籃的花兒香。。。”

我笑了。他興致很高地繼續唱下去，然後開始劇烈地咳起來，讓我想起了這次來醫
院的原因。我嚷道，“這首歌我聽過！”於是跟着唱了起來，雖然歌詞是模模糊糊
的。

“蠻好聽的一首歌。她很老了嗎？”我問。

“現在是老了。但她比我年輕。”

外公的眼裡浮現出一種溫柔的神情。他不說話了，靜靜地坐着，迷失在沉思里。我
想起了Pink Floyd，想着不知五十年後，我想起Pink Floyd和我的青春歲月，是不
是會和外公現在一樣。我伸出手去，握緊了外公的手。

我們這麼坐着，握着手，輕輕地哼着，直到有人出來叫“魏祖明？”我們站了起來，
跟着她走進了醫生在等着的房間。

。。。

我的外公現在是過了80歲的老人了。有一天他會不在人世，而隨着時間的消逝我對
他的記憶也會淡去。但我希望我每次聽到那首歌時，我就會看到那些黃色的牆，聞
着舊樓的氣味，和淡淡的香煙味。我希望能記得他告訴我關於著名歌唱家郭蘭英時
的聲音，還有他粗糙的手握着我的手時的感覺。

Nostalgia, Like a Shattered Rose

There are nights when you are overcome by nostalgia, of all emotions the most bittersweet. Sometimes it creeps up on you and shrouds you with the kind of wistful sentiments you get while watching a sunset. And sometimes, it’s like a switch that flicks on and illuminates a forgotten corner of the mind.

Jack mentioned Guo Lan Ying on IM.

“You’ve heard of Guo Lan Ying, right?” He asked.
“Who?”
“You know, the one who originally sang Wo De Zu Guo. She was famous.”
“I remember now.” I said. “My grandfather told me about her once.”

And with that, the light flicked on.

...

I sat next to my grandfather, the one who took me to feed carp fish in the Qing Shan Park, who dipped his Yo Tiao into soy milk before gingerly taking a bite, who grew blooming red begonias on his balcony, making it easy to spot against the gloomy concrete sides of the narrow street. We sat in a hall dimly-lit, on a bench dark and worn with mysterious grooves. It was not like the hospitals I knew, with a strange smell fluttering in the air, although there were doctor-like people dressed in white walking to and fro. The halls were lined with benches and the benches lined with people in clumps of one and two.

I sat in the midst of the pungent hospital smell, waiting patiently because I wanted to be a Good Girl. I always wanted to be a Good Girl, even if I didn't always smile in pictures because I was sulking. And I wanted to love my grandfather---he bought me a necklace with a jade pendant shaped in my Chinese zodiac sign---but I wanted to love him because I was happy to have a grandfather, even if it was only for two weeks.

He chatted with me while we waited, and I listened hard, because I didn't always understand what he said even though I wanted to. He talked different from mom and dad (in a dialect that maybe only a few million people speak), and I tried to understand because it feels wrong and sad not to be able to talk to your grandfather. You want to charm him, and prove that you are not the little stranger from America even though maybe you are, so that at the next meal he’d forget to say “dou dou zai mei guo zhang da. Ta yao bu yao he ke le?”

“Do you know who Guo Lan Ying is?”

I twisted my mouth in concentration. “Not sure. Who is she?” The name sounded familiar.

“She was a great singer. I’m sure your dad and mom have sung her songs before.” He started to sing softly, in a voice that was wavery with age and husky from too many cigarettes. “Hua Lan De Hua Er Xiang ...”

I laughed. He sang on, delightedly, and then started to cough the dry hacking cough that had brought us here. “I know it!! I know it!!” I exclaimed, and tried to sing along, although the words were only fuzzy impressions on my mind, without a precise form or meaning.

“It’s a pretty little song. Is she very old?” I said.
“Yes, she’s old now. But she’s younger than I.”

Tender feelings surfaced in his eyes. He hushed, and quietly sat there for a few moments, lost in thoughts. I thought of Pink Floyd, wondering fifty years down the road if I would reminisce about them and my youth the way my grandpa reminisced about Guo Lan Ying. I reached out and gripped my grandfather's hand.

We sat like that, hands clasped, humming, until someone called out "Wei Zu Ming?" And then we stood up, and followed her into a room where the doctor was waiting.

...

My grandfather is an old man now, past eighty. Someday he'll be gone, and with time my memories of him may fade. But I like to think that whenever I hear that song, I’ll see those yellow walls, smell the old building, and the faint scent of cigarettes. I would like to be able to recall the sound of his voice as he told me about Guo Lan Ying, the famous Chinese singer with a sweet, high-pitch voice, and feel the rough wrinkles of his palm against mine.