有时候，在独自一人的晚上，记忆会悄然爬上心头，让你模糊地感到有些若有所失，
就象有时看日落时的感觉。在开关打开后，它象一盏灯，照亮了你心中某个被遗忘
了的角落。记忆，是一种甜中又带点苦的感觉。

今天，Jack在IM中说，“你听说过郭兰英吧？”
“谁？”
“就是唱我的祖国的那个，很出名的。”
“啊，想起来了。”我说。“我的外公有次告诉过我。”

于是，记忆的开关被打开了。

。。。

我陪外公坐着---那个带着我一起去青山公园喂鲤鱼的外公；那个吃油条时，总要蘸
着豆浆才仔细地咬一口的外公；那个在阳台上种着怒放的红海棠，让我们在灰暗的
街上能一眼看到的外公。我俩坐在灯光灰暗的走廊里，深色的凳子上有着不明不白
的条条沟沟。这家医院不是我所熟悉的医院的样子，空气中飘着一种陌生的气味，
但有医生模样的人们在走来走去。走廊里有很多条凳，凳上三三两两地坐着看病的
人。

我坐在刺鼻的医院气味里，耐心地陪外公等着。我想让外公知道，我是个好孩子，
虽然我照相时总是不爱笑。我很想爱外公---他给我买了条项琏，上面的玉坠是我的
生肖---但是我想爱他是因为我高兴有了一个外公，虽然只能是短短的两星期。

他跟我聊天，我很认真地听着，他的话我并不总能听懂。他说的话跟我爸妈不同，
是一种只有几百人会说的方言。我尽力地听着，因为听不懂自己外公的话是很可悲
的。你想让他们知道，你不是从美国回来的小陌生人；在下次吃饭时，也不要老是
不忘记地说，“豆豆在美国长大，要不要喝可乐？”

“你听说过郭兰英吗？”他说。

“不清楚。她是谁？”我问。

“她是个杰出的歌唱家。你爸妈以前一定唱过她的歌。”他开始唱了起来，带着点
苍老颤抖的声音，因为长年吸烟而有点沙哑，“花篮的花儿香。。。”

我笑了。他兴致很高地继续唱下去，然后开始剧烈地咳起来，让我想起了这次来医
院的原因。我嚷道，“这首歌我听过！”于是跟着唱了起来，虽然歌词是模模糊糊
的。

“蛮好听的一首歌。她很老了吗？”我问。

“现在是老了。但她比我年轻。”

外公的眼里浮现出一种温柔的神情。他不说话了，静静地坐着，迷失在沉思里。我
想起了Pink Floyd，想着不知五十年后，我想起Pink Floyd和我的青春岁月，是不
是会和外公现在一样。我伸出手去，握紧了外公的手。

我们这么坐着，握着手，轻轻地哼着，直到有人出来叫“魏祖明？”我们站了起来，
跟着她走进了医生在等着的房间。

。。。

我的外公现在是过了80岁的老人了。有一天他会不在人世，而随着时间的消逝我对
他的记忆也会淡去。但我希望我每次听到那首歌时，我就会看到那些黄色的墙，闻
着旧楼的气味，和淡淡的香烟味。我希望能记得他告诉我关于著名歌唱家郭兰英时
的声音，还有他粗糙的手握着我的手时的感觉。

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.