Author: Lin Lanqian 林蘭倩
Recently, I participated in an activity themed “A Floating Life.” The facilitator asked us to choose, from a table of dried flowers and grasses, one plant that resonated with our hearts. As my gaze passed over bunny tails, roses, and baby’s breath, a bundle of golden barley suddenly caught my eye. At that moment, I chose the barley without hesitation because it looked so much like ripened rice.
The door of memory opened slightly, and my tears began to flow uncontrollably. When the facilitator invited participants to share their life stories, I could only focus on holding back my tears.
Participants of all ages spoke freely. Younger participants talked about their losses; some had lost fathers who used to clash with them, while others missed beloved dogs that had accompanied them through their childhood. These stories of loss made my emotions even harder to steady, yet they also filled me with respect. Anyone who dares to look back at their wounds is a warrior of life.
When it was finally my turn, I still could not speak. Those stories of the past, I had tried countless times to sublimate them in my heart. Yet for some reason, even now my tears continued to surge. Perhaps the child within me still has tears to shed.
I, too, want to become a warrior.
Whenever I see rice stalks, I think of my grandpa. He was one of my caregivers. We were not related by blood, yet I called him Grandpa.
A baseball cap on his head and a loose grey shirt and trousers. This was the work attire he wore year after year.
Whenever I fell ill with a high fever, Grandpa and Grandma would take turns carrying me on their backs until I regained my strength and was lively again.
During the harvest season, I often pestered him to teach me how to turn the rice. Under the blazing sun, with golden fields stretching across the land, he would simply smile at me quietly. In the granary, he used ropes and old tires to make me the very first swing of my life with his own hands. Sitting on that swing, I swayed freely with the wind, my laughter echoing among wooden beams and the scent of rice.
In those days, my world was simple. Just farmland, the sea, and carefree happiness.
At the age of six, the hand of fate pushed me away from the place I regarded as home. I went to Tainan to attend primary school at my maternal grandmother’s house, and after Primary Three, I remained in Taipei. In my twenties, while working in Taipei, I learned by chance that Grandpa had liver disease. I hurried back during a short break to visit him. He rose from the wooden bed to chat with me, smiling just as he always had, as though he were not in pain at all. Young and unaware, I did not know what I could give him to express my concern. I gave him a red envelope, but he insisted on refusing it, saying, “I already have everything.”
From beginning to end, he was a plain and unadorned elder with a rich inner world. In my ignorance, I did not realize that that would be the last time I saw him. A grey shirt, a gentle smile, a graceful turning away. He even left me some money for after his passing.
Many years later, quite by accident, I learned from his family that when I was about to leave for Tainan, he who was never good with words kept discussing with them, saying, “Shall we buy her from them, alright?”
There is a kind of love in this world that is so comforting and invisible, like a gentle breeze passing by, like a stream flowing quietly. He never asked me for love, yet he taught me what unconditional love is. A person I did not have time to say “I love you” or “thank you” to. He was like wind and water, someone I deeply loved and respected. He was my grandpa, Mr. Jiang Wanshui.
I never gave Grandpa anything. If I ever did, it would have been that shared smile under the scorching sun, in the golden rice fields, exchanged between the two of us.
“Memory” is both profound and deeply etched in the heart. When I gather the courage time and again to look back, sorrow is no longer merely regret and pain, but a gentle strength. Courage is not about not crying. It is about being able to smile calmly through grateful tears as you look back at the past.
The autumns of my childhood shine like rice in my memory, golden like a dream.
Now, if someone were to ask me, “What color is autumn?”
I would answer without hesitation, “Autumn is golden yellow!”
That golden memory has become an eternal light in my heart.
近期參加一場以「浮游人生」為主題的活動，講師請我們從一桌乾燥花草
中，挑選一株觸動內心的植物。當我的視線掠過兔尾草、玫瑰與滿天星時，一
束金黃的大麥忽然映入眼簾。那一刻，我毫不猶豫地選擇了大麥——因為它太
像稻穗了。
記憶之門稍稍啟動，我的淚水便止不住地湧出。當講師邀請學員們分享他們的
人生故事時，我卻只能忙於止住我的淚。
老與少不分年齡的學員，侃侃而談……年輕的孩子談論著他們的失去：有人失
去了總與自己爭鋒相對的父親，有人懷念伴她成長離世的愛犬。那些關於「失
去」的故事讓我的心緒更加難以平復，也讓我充滿敬意——每個勇於回望傷口
的人，都是生命的勇者。
最後輪到我時，我仍說不出口。那些關於過往的故事，我早在心裡試著讓它昇
華千百回，可是，不知為何至今我的淚仍奔騰不止，或許是小時候的我還有
淚。
我，也想成為勇者。
稻穗，我看到稻穗就會想起我的阿公，他是我的照顧者之一，我們沒有血緣關
係，我稱他為阿公。
頭戴棒球帽、一襲寬鬆的灰衫褲裝，是他長年不變工作的衣著。
在我生病高燒時，他和阿嬤總會輪流揹著我，直到我恢復活力再度活蹦亂跳。
稻穗收成的季節，我常拗著他教我翻稻。炙陽之下，遍地金黃，他總是靜靜地
對我微笑。他在穀倉裡，用繩索與舊輪胎，親手為我製作了我人生中第一個鞦
韆。我在鞦韆上，乘著風自由的擺盪，笑聲在木樑與稻香間迴盪。
那些日子，我的世界單純的只有田園風光、海景，與無憂無慮的快樂。
六歲那年，命運之手將我推離那個我視為家的地方，去了台南外婆家讀小學，
小學三年級之後便一直待在台北。二十幾歲在台北上班的我，有天輾轉得知他
罹患肝病，急急找了個休假日回去探望，他躺在木床上起身與我閒聊，仍笑得
一如往常，彷彿毫無病痛。年輕的我，不知道該給他甚麼才能表達我的關心，
我包了個紅包給他，他堅持不收說：「我什麼都有了。」
自始至終他都是一位樸實無華、心靈富足的長者，無知的我並不知道那就是最
後一面，一襲灰杉、一抹微笑，優雅轉身，他甚至留了手尾錢給我。
多年後，不經意之間，我才從他的家人口中得知，當年我要去台南時，不擅言
語的他，一直跟家人商量：「我們跟他們買，好不？」
這世間有一種愛，是那樣的舒心不著痕跡，如清風徐徐吹過，如涓涓溪水流
過。他從來沒有跟我要過愛，卻教我學會什麼是無條件的愛，一個我來不及道
愛道謝的人，他如風如水，是我深愛敬愛之人，他是我的阿公，江萬水先生。
我從未給過阿公任何東西，如果真有過，那便是炙陽之下，金黃色的稻場上，
我們爺孫倆相視的微笑。
「記憶」既深沉又刻骨銘心，當我一而再再而三鼓起勇氣去回望，悲傷不再只
是遺憾和疼痛，而是一種溫柔的力量。勇敢不是不哭，而是能平靜地帶著感恩
的淚微笑回望過去。
兒時的秋天，在記憶中璀璨如稻，金黃如夢。
如今，如果有人問我：「 秋天是甚麼顏色？」我一定會說：「 秋天是金黃色
的！」
那份金黃色的記憶，成了我心中永不滅的光。