Butterfly Among Flowers

Late autumn thunderstorms blew through Beijing, bringing cold rains and bitter winds. All of the beautiful red leaves fell from the Poplar trees and were washed down sewer drains.
At Ying Liu’s house, a steady trickle of raindrops ran down the windowpane as Ying practiced his Chinese writing. He got up from his desk and stood beside the window. He exhaled hot breath on the glass, fogging it over. He took a finger and traced his name on the windowpane.
“Ying, it’s time for lunch,” said Lien-Hua, who had been standing silently in the doorway.
“I’ll be there in a minute.” Ying used his shirt sleeve to clean the writing off the window.
“What were you doing?” asked Lien-Hua.
“Nothing,” he replied.
“You were drawing a picture,” said Lien-Hua.
“I was just thinking about something.”
“Thinking about what?”
“Nothing much,” replied Ying.
Ying and Lien-Hua washed their hands and went into the kitchen. Grandma Mei was already sitting at the table waiting for the children. Mrs. Liu pulled the frying pan off the stove and poured Garlic Chicken into a platter on the table. There was also a bowl filled with long noodles. Ying gabbed the serving fork and piled the long noodles onto his plate next to the chicken on his plate.
“What would you like to drink?” asked Mother.
“May I please have a glass of soy milk?” asked Ying.
“I’ll take a glass of soy milk, too,” said Lien-Hua.
Mrs. Liu served up two glasses of soy milk for her children and sat down with them to enjoy lunch.
Ying helped himself to the plate of Ginger Chicken. He took one bite and it melted in his mouth.
“This is really good, mama. It’s so tender,” said Ying.
“I fried it in ginger and soy sauce,” said Mrs. Liu.
As Ying ate his Ginger Chicken, he noticed something was missing. “Where are Grandpa Jong and papa?” asked Ying.
“They went to drink tea and talk to Mr. Li,” answered his mother.
“Will they be long?”
“It could be shortly, it could be a long time, I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me or Grandma when they would be returning.”
“Your father said he wanted to play Weiqi.”
“Papa doesn’t like Weiqi,” replied Ying.
“That’s why I think they are up to some mischief,” said Grandma Mei.
After Ying ate several pieces of chicken, he sat at the table and stared outside, thinking about the window pane in his bedroom.
“Can I be excused?” he asked.
“As long as you take your dishes to the sink and rinse them,” said his mother.
Ying returned to his bedroom and went to the bookshelf. He grabbed a book and flipped through the pages. His name appeared inside many other words: Ying-!!!, !!!-ying, ying-!!!. He placed the book on the shelf and returned to the kitchen.
“You’re back already? That was quick.”
“Mama, I was just thinking about my name. Where did it come from?”
“Your father wanted your name to be Ying, just like his father.”
“No, I mean, where did the word ‘Ying’ come from originally?”
“That’s a very complicated thing,” said Mrs. Liu.
“Ying means ‘hero’,” answered Grandma Mei.
“Does it mean anything else?”
“What do you mean?”
“My name appears in many other words, like !!! and !!!”
“Two words form an idea, “Ying - !!!” means hero and !!! means !!!“
“I understand that part, but how did my name become hero?”
“When you write ‘Ying” you are drawing a man – a hero.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s go to the sewing room,” urged Grandma Mei. Everyone followed her to the sewing table. Grandma Mei pulled a piece of paper and ink pen from the desk and she began drawing symbols on the paper. “All words were once pictures. Grandma Mei traced an square on the paper. “This is the word for mouth. See how it looks like a mouth? And what are these three vertical lines?”
“Mountain,” Lien-Hua quickly answered.
“That’s right. See how it looks like a mountain? One line rising towards the sky, guarded by two supporting lines. All words were once pictures drawn on animal bones to share stories.”
“But what about ‘wind?’ It looks like a man in a building,” said Ying.
“You’re thinking correctly now.” Grandma Mei drew the symbol for ‘wind.’ Indeed, it looked like a man in the house, the house drawn as two walls and a ceiling, forming a shelter over the man.
“There was once a saying that went, ‘where the wind stirs, the bugs breed.’ Instead of a man, it’s a bug inside the house.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, but it sounds good, doesn’t it?”
Ying nodded.
“I take wind and put mouth next to it and it becomes a drafty place...
“But the name Mei means ‘beautiful.’ Do you think the symbol for Mei is beautiful?”
“Very,” said Grandma Mei. Her arm flowed freely over the paper, drawing the nine strokes that formed her complicated name.
“My hand moves freely over the paper, creating one of the most elegant words one could write.”
“What about my name?” asked Lien-Hua.
“Ah, Lien-Hua, that is a very interesting name indeed.” Grandma Mei grabbed Lien-Hua by the hand. She pulled Lien-Hua onto her lap and gave her the pen.
“Write your name for us.”
Lien-Hua drew two characters across the paper.
“You have to feel the writing, not just write it.”
“I am trying to feel it,” answered Lien-Hua.
“Let me show you.” Grandma Mei’s hand rested gently over Lien-Hua’s hand. Effortless, she drew Lien-Hua’s name, as if it were her own name.
“Lien-Hua. Lien means butterfly and Hua means flower. Your mom chased the butterflies through our flower garden when she was growing up.”
“Did you really?” asked Lien-Hua.
“Of course I did. I’ve always loved butterflies. You were a gift to your father and me. One warm spring day we were trying to decide on a name for you. I wanted to call you Lien and your father wanted to call you Hua, so we compromised. “Lien-Hua – butterfly among the flowers.”
Lien-Hua wrote her name again, attempting to draw as beautifully as her Grandmother.
“It’s very difficult,” sighed Lien-Hua.
“Not really, you just have to feel it,” insisted Grandma Mei.
Lien-Hua placed the ink pen on the paper again as Grandma Mei wrapped her fingers over Lien-Hua’s tiny hand.
“Relax your hand.”
Grandma Mei moved the brush effortlessly back and forth across the paper, drawing Lien-Hua’s name. Grandma Mei’s strokes and lines flowed from the ink pen as he hand moved over the paper.
“There you go,” said Grandma Mei.
The front door of the house creaked as it opened and banged as it shut. Grandpa Jong and Mr. Liu had returned with gifts. Grandpa Jong held several bright red sticks that Lien-Hua and Ying recognized immediately.
“Tanghulu!” exclaimed Lien-Hua. Grandpa Jong gave her one of the bright orange sticks and she stuck it into her mouth. The peppermint and sugar coating melted in her mouth. For Lien-Hua, nothing beat a crisp winter day with a stick of Tanghulu. Grandpa Jong held out a tiny wooden box for Ying.
“What is it?”
“Open it up and see,” said Grandpa Jong.
Ying carefully peeled the paper wrapping off the container. Inside, there was a small cricket cage made of bamboo.
“It’s beautiful. I think I’ll put it on my bookshelf,” said Ying.
“You cannot just leave it empty. Every cricket cage deserves a cricket,” said Grandpa Jong.
“Crickets bring luck,” said Grandma Mei.
“Crickets bring dirt and noise,” said Ying’s mother.
“You cannot leave a cricket cage empty,” insisted Grandma Mei.
“You have to keep it inside your room then.”
Ying nodded obediently and went to his bedroom, where he found an empty space on his bookshelf for the cricket cage. He returned to the sewing room where Mr. Liu still carried a large wooden box in his arms.
“What do you have in the box?” asked Mrs. Liu.
“You’ve been asking very many questions lately,” said Mr. Liu.
“You and my father have been keeping secrets lately,” replied Mrs. Liu.
“You’ll see,” said Grandpa Jong.
Mr. Liu went back to the master bedroom with the wooden box. When he returned, his hands were empty.
“Oh, Ya Liu, what am I going to do with you?” said Mrs. Liu as wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck and hugged him.
“Hugs and kisses won’t get the answer out of me,” said Mr. Liu.
“Alright then,” said Mrs. Liu. She let him loose and returned to the sewing table with her mother.
“What are we up to here?” asked Grandpa Jong.
“We were talking about how mom and dad gave me my name.”
“I kept telling them to call you ‘Nan,’” said Grandpa Jong.
“But ‘Nan’ means difficult,” whined Lien-Hua.
“See what I mean? I think it’s a very good name.”
“Lien-Hua, he is teasing you,” said Mrs. Liu.
“It’s not very funny,” pouted Lien-Hua.
“Okay, my little Nan,” said Grandpa Jong.
“Father! Leave her alone.”
“I’m sorry,” said Grandpa Jong. He leaned over and attempted to steal a kiss from Lien-Hua. She quickly stepped away.
“Now you’re being difficult,” said Grandpa Jong. He chased Lien-Hua around the sewing room as she ran and screamed joyfully. Grandpa Jong finally caught her and grabbed her in both hands. He planted tiny butterfly kisses across Lien-Hua’s face. She laughed and giggled at her Grandpa.
“There’s my butterfly,” exclaimed Grandpa Jong.
“Thank you, Grandpa,” said Lien-Hua.
“You’re not difficult at all. You’re my favorite grand daughter.”
“I’m your only grand daughter.”
“That doesn’t make it any less true,” said Grandpa Jong.
Grandpa Jong’s teasing was playful and fun, and he would never rest until his grandchildren knew how much he truly loved them. The dimples in Lien-Hua’s cheeks were all the symbols he needed to know everything was all right again....everything except the mystery of Ya Liu’s big wooden box.