Rice

Life comes from the earth and life returns to the earth.
Zhuangzi

The old man had been waiting, though not even the breath of the trees had begun to whisper of their impending awkening.

The sun had just begun its rise over the distant mountains, its pathetic attempts at ascension casting halfheartearted ombre streaks of saffron and salmon across the early dawn`s sky. As far as the eye could see were puddles--puddles and puddles and puddles of water holding in tiny pockets of moisture. Some far off pools reached greedily for the solemn peaks above, but were soon chastened back into their lowly existence by gravity´s cruel whip. It was the same gravity which had caused the old man, sitting on his porch that morning, to sink further into his chair as he looked out on his rice paddy fields and thought about the hopelessness of it all.

In his left hand he held a tea stained letter written in finely crafted Mandarin. On its yellowed edge the charred black lick of a candles flame slowly snaked its way towards the man`s blistered hands. It was a declaration he had recieved the previous morning, while sitting in the same position he now occupied. Unable to move since, it marked the first day and last day the man would miss a day of hard labor in the fields.

When the firey kiss finally became to much to bear, the old man allowed the last square of parchment to fall softly to the floor. It disentegrated faster now, until finally all that remained was a small pile of charcoal-colored ash. From around the corner of the porch, a rooster trepidly crept its way towards the man´s chair as if congnizent of the man´s precarious mood. Once deciding that the man meant him no harm, the animal moved closer--pecking at the sooty remains. It ate the bits of dust hungrily, its beak a loud click click tapping at the wooden floorboards. Like a well trained conductor, the sudden tapping seemed to send the rest of the world into position, an orchestra of birds and leaves and insects rising to greet the new day.

Not meaning to, the man jumped. It was the first time he had allowed the visions in his head to subside since losing himself in the illustrative power of the now-deceased letter. With great effort, the man rose-- the tendons in his arms and legs grew taught once more, pulling him towards the watery baptisms where he hoped to once again drown out the harsh realities of his lifes mistakes with the familiar anesthesia of a hard days work. 

It had been over twenty years, and try as he might to appear sentimental, he had rarely thought of it since. Like most things in life, it was simply another chore that needed to be done. Another unavoidable part of life—in all its past, present, and future grief.

There had been no room for her then. No work, and thus no life for her there, he had reasoned.  It was as simple as that—as simple as the promise of a word, an exchange of coin, and another empty carpet in their hut. And yet his wife, the ever cheery woman who had followed him into the fields since boyhood, could not bear with the parting as she watched the entirety of her genetic inheritance board that season´s crop heading for the city. Towards the new hopeful beginning every family in those fields knelt down that night praying for. Bound to no master, drenched to the bone in no untouchable luxury.

It wasn`t until he began coughing up blood that he started concerning himself with that fateful day so long past. Began searching for an heir with whom he could share the plenty he had acquired over a lifetime of sacrifice.

First he had dispatched a man to Beijing, since that´s where it had been promised she would be employed. When no trace of her could be found, he expanded the radius of his search to outlying villages and smaller cities. When still no news came of her whereabouts, he grew desperate—employing two more men to travel further south to Zhengzhou and Shanghai to bring her home. It had been months since he had heard news from his men, a full crop season had come and gone and he had given up hope on ever finding the lost girl. When the post had finally arrived the previous morning, a rare luxury over the past few years as more of his workers either died off or fled for the city, the seal of silence was finally lifted.

With a new sense of determination, the man walked swiftly to his shed where he kept his many farming tools. Pieces of hardened metal, extensions of his own blood thickened limbs over the years. Blood that, until only very recently, had become more important to him than the water he had looked after all his life.

At the bottom of a large chest of nets he found what he was looking for. Without looking back he turned the compass of his spine once more to his fields and began the well rehearsed balance act walking between tiny strips of soil in-between pools. Once or twice he paused to revel once again at the magnamity of his life´s work, but never more than a few seconds. Though he man moved with a sense of purpose, it was a purpose whose resolve was vulnerable to the passing of time.

When at last the old man came to the center of his fields, he stopped. Staring into the murky water, he placed one foot into its soft floor as his reflection became a disfigured blend of broken colors. Then another foot, then each hand as he fell wearily into the font of his absolution. Kneeling down in the early morning sunrise, he felt the familiar stance of childhood piety seep through his dirty clothes.

Far off in the distance a tiny spec of steel shot its way towards the man´s porch. It came out of nowhere, as they most often did-- the bright red bullet penetrating the great fortress of his earthly empire. At first it seemed to move slowly, as if taking its time to inspect the quality of the man`s efforts. And then all at once it was gone, winding once more between the mountain ranges ahead and out of his life forever. That was the closest they ever came, those mountains.

The man had never wanted it any differently.