I found myself busy writing at the desk again. I had made up my mind to water, with my life, this beautiful flower of literary prose. I treated it with the care of poetry; my fountain pen, soaked in enthusiasm, inked out words, page by page. I rose early and retired late, devoting all my spare time to writing.
"Ouch!" my wife cried. Her chopping board became silent.
Dropping my pen, I dashed into the kitchen, only to find her pressing her left forefinger with her right hand. Her mouth closed, she frowned at the wounded finger. Blood was oozing from its tip, then running along the back of her hand before it dripped onto the cement floor.
"Gosh! My wife got a cut when she was chopping her vegetables," I said to myself "Gosh! My wife, who's got a cut, is scared!"
"Easy!" I shouted. "Press it harder and raise it a little higher up. I'll find the medicine for you."
After a quick, frantic search in the drawer, I found the ethyl alcohol, mercurochrome, cotton balls and bandages. I lost no time in bandaging up her finger with tender care.
When all was taken care of, I held up her hand and led her into the bedroom. We sat on the bed. I safely put her hand over my large palm, placed it against my chest and started to fondle it. I kept fondling it as if to soothe the long years of hardship it had gone through, as if to pacify the pain of the cut. Only when my wife's face lit up with a faint smile at the corner of her mouth did my tight, wrinkled heart start to expand to its own shape. Yet I did not stop fondling her hand.
All of a sudden, I seemed to discover a new continent: how had her once tender, smooth hands become so rough? Where were her ten small, slender forgers now? My! The pads of her fingers had turned purple, the bottoms covered with button-like calluses. Her skin had also become very loose, no longer as springy and tight as it used to be.
I raised her hands for a close look and found them pale and covered with wrinkles, her veins bulging out under her skin. I was even more shocked at seeing the spots, like bruises, on the back of her hands, which I had seen as a child on the skin of the older generation. Age had eaten up its youth; hard work had aged it too early. Feeling a surge in my heart, I found moisture in my eyes; it flickered in the light, then slowly turned into tears, falling onto the back of her hands.
Seeing what was happening as she turned around, she gave me a gentle stroke with her shoulder and said in a soft voice, "Now there! Aren't you being silly! You are not a child anymore." With this she put her chin over my shoulder as she used to do when we were young…
Memories of the misty past, somewhat bitter-sweet, welled up in my mind. When I heard a light waltz, I summoned my courage, walked up to her with a courteous bow, making a gesture of invitation. She smiled shyly but accepted my invitation at once. Thus, for the first time in my life, I was holding her hands, dancing merrily around.
I tried to be graceful throughout the dance, politely holding her four closed fingers with my left thumb and three other fingers, while my right hand gently rested on her back. However, being a greenhorn, I was really distracted by the beat under my feet. Before I knew it, I was clutching her entire hand, my right hand forcefully clasping her back into my arm fast and close. Thus, each dance would see me release her hand soaked with sweat. I could only lower my head and apologize earnestly: "Do excuse me, I am no dancer." But she answered me with a forgiving smile. Then we each found a seat and sat down.
There were plenty of dances in the university, and practice made me a good dancer. As we danced, we became more and more familiar with each other. Perhaps it was during one of the early dates that I suddenly found her hands so tender and soft, just like a little mass of warm dough. I almost wanted to call them "as fair as jade," a phrase often used in classic novels. Later on, our relationship took a leap forward, and I could, without restraint, bring her hands over to my knees and enjoy viewing them closely. Only then did I discover that my wife-to-be's hands were so charming--smooth, slender and youthfully energetic.
"My, aren't they neat and delicate hands?" I said in admiration.
"Aren't all girls' hands like these?" she replied in a soft, sweet voice.
"Perhaps they are, but I've never found out." Then I started to laugh, proud of the witty reply I had carelessly uttered.
She pouted, throwing a glance at me. "And there, when you were first dancing with me, you squeezed my hands so hard."
"What? Me squeezing your hands? Oh, that's unfair!" I protested. "I was just learning to dance. I was concentrated on my steps. I took care not to step on your feet. I was afraid of making mistakes and was nervous all over. Honestly, my hands were numb, and I never knew I was squeezing yours!"
"But—what proof do you have?" she naughtily provoked me.
"Proof? There, there. But am I still doing that now?"
"Now?" She turned sideways as a sparkle flashed in her eyes."Now you can have them any way you like." With this she thrust up her tender hand toward my chest.
Happy but nervous, I simply led it up toward my lips and...
In those days, her hands were engaged in note-taking and writing. The tip of her pen kissing the blank paper rustled like a silkworm feeding on mulberry leaves-it was melodious. I was surprised that her hands were even more nimble and more clever than my much larger and stronger hands.
Her hands also took over the duties of my washing, sewing, knitting, everything, even before we got married. I thought that hers must be the most beautiful and most clever hands in the world.
Later on, after we got married, I simply forgot about her hands.
Unbelievably, more than twenty years have passed as if in the twinkling of an eye, and her hands have become so rough.
Nonetheless, the long years have witnessed that she possesses a pair of hard-working hands that can do wonders. Throughout the years, at work, they have been a social asset, producing high-quality food for the minds of numerous readers. At home, these two hands run almost everything, from household financial matters to raising a lovely son and daughter to doing tedious household chores as well as grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, clothes mending and sewing. These hands even spare time for writing, often until midnight. The result is that a family which is pretty hard up has been operating in an orderly way, with all its members happy and harmonious.
Hardened by the years of life, her hands have become more and more clever. Now by taking some rough measurements and through a few cuts by the scissors, then by pressing through the sewing machine, they magically turn an oddment of cotton print into a dress for our little daughter. A perfect fit, simple but elegant, it makes the girl look gracefully quiet just beautiful! Our girl was once so excited that she threw herself into her mother's arms, dropping kisses on her lovely hands.
Several cabbage leaves, chopped into threads, poured into the hot vegetable oil in the heated wok, then stirred with a handful of dry shrimps, some milk powder, cooking starch and other ingredients rapidly turn into a fine dish that not only looks tempting and smells savory, but also tastes delicious. There, the dish looks bluish white, dotted with dozens of red stars; she has named it "Clouds Over the Sky." Every visitor who tastes it praises the hostess for her creative mind and clever hands.
Once leaving her hands, an article of two or three thousand words written by an inexperienced writer would have its theme clearly sharpened in a carefully crafted structure whose language would flow like water. That is why writers have comments like, "That editor has miraculous skills that turn hopeless manuscripts into print."
She is a faithful, devoted wife who appreciates my rigorous attitude to life: I am a hard-working professional who never rests on his achievements, a husband who devotes all of himself to his wife, a modest and amiable man who lives a simple life. She encourages me to incorporate this in my literary works, contrasting herself with those who criticize me for my outdated way of life and literary concepts. Indignant at such criticism, I once even wrote a lengthy letter to defend myself Seeing what I had written, she gave a win-some smile, and with a pen in her clever hand that had borne long years of hardship, she crossed out the unneeded words for me, finally keeping almost nothing except "Thanks!"
Open-minded, patient, modest, generous and forgiving—that is her all over. She will not fight over trifles, right or wrong. The guiding principles she follows in dealing with herself and others often enlighten me. Heartfelt thanks emerging from the bottom of my heart, I keep fondling her hands as we smile at each other.
The only disappointment I feel is that her hands have handled too much extra work. As we originally agreed, we have to bring up our children to be self-reliant and hard working, and that they should wash their own clothes as they grew up. Yet whenever one of them, like a spoiled child refuses to do it, she takes over-these hands of hers busily finish it up for them instantly. According to our agreement, our little son is in charge of dishwashing, but once he shows signs of disliking it, that pair of hands immediately gets involved again-picking up the bowls and chopsticks, washing and drying them on his behalf. Yes, those are my wife's hands, a mother's hands. Indeed, every mother loves her children. Every mother is generous and forgiving toward her children. How could she possibly distinguish her work from her children's?
I have been told that my wife is getting old quickly, more quickly than I am, suggesting that she is no longer a perfect match for me. No way! With such a pair of hands, which have brought about a happy life and family for me, she is forever young, forever beautiful!
At this moment, as I am fondling her now old-looking, rough hands, an insuppressible feeling of virgin love is surging all over me. That drive is just like that of a young lover's, or even stronger…
I cannot but hold up her hands toward my lips again..,
"Love your wife, love your wife forever! Do look at your wife's hands should distracting thoughts ever bother you. Hers are a diligent pair that has been working day and night, creating a happy life together with you, through thick and thin!"
I am in boundless love, so I am fondling her hands with boundless joy.
I love work, so I love my wife's hands.
I worship creativity, so I worship my wife's hands.
I praise the true, the good and the beautiful, so I praise my wife's hands.
I have a wish: may my wife's hands, which have contributed greatly to humanity, never be forgotten! For this purpose, I have decided to write a fine piece of prose, and to entitle it "My Wife's Hands"!