But you might not imagine how a person of my father’s character could be extremely laughable and subtly lovable.
There was such a story. The events occurred on the fifteenth day of the eighth month of the lunar calendar in 2014. Yes, it was the annual Mid-Autumn Festival. Back to a specifi c hour of six in the evening, a borrowed new table, which was perfectly set in the middle of father’s guardroom, looked as round as the moon. On the table, a large round mooncake, which was a gift sent from our home county, was neatly cut in six even pieces. The given mooncake was made of dry pork with a familiar scent of rice wine that we used to making at home in the village. It had an unutterable taste of nostalgia with its wistful saltiness and sweetness. As our tradition, the mooncake along with boiled bean pods was the fi rst course of our festival dinner. Accordingly we, excluding Mei, gathered round the table for some longing excitement of the special day.