Shu Qin


This book is a vessel of love and memories dedicated to my grandmother. Her home stood on the edge of the Badain Jaran Desert, and in the twilight of her life, Alzheimer's began to unravel her memories, like grains of sand slipping through fingers. In this tale, I transform from a quiet observer to a tender storyteller, journeying with her through the boundless desert, gathering the scattered shards of her fading past.

Pages: 40
Size: 280 x 198 mm
Binding: Butterfly binding




This is my grandma, Shuqin, lying on the temporary bed just built in the living room.
This is my grandpa, Lixing.
The one lying on the sickbed is losing her memory little by little, and her organs are slowly failing.
The one sitting on the sofa is so indifferent, just like the desert at midnight, desolate, and silent.
Most times, Shuqin is sitting in silence, or lying on her side. Staring at the door when she is awake, numb, as if absorbed in her thoughts. She has forgotten those people sitting around her, but her empty eyes star at everyone getting close to her, staying highly alert. 
In the 60s and 70s, in their hometown in the Northeast, Shuqin was engaged to Lixing orally after both parents’ introduction. Later, she came to this desert of the Great Northwest following Lixing.
In the past, Shuqin did all the family chores, even the most tiny thing, and every plate was in its right place.
Shuqin had symptoms of Alzheimer's disease in the 2000s. Her memory was blown away into the desert like those sand, and gradually, no matter where she was, she would cry to go back to the “home” in her mind.
It happens a lot, and even several times a day sometimes.
Shuqin will tirelessly hide all the knickknacks found by her, paper towels, steamed buns, shoes and socks...
Before dawn, the entire small town is so quiet.
The sunlight of dawn is overflowing from the back of the sand sea, and patches of desert are growing more scarlet.
It seems that she cannot feel anything around her.
In Shuqin’s bedroom balcony, there are censers and various incenses for enshrine and worship, and ashes of burn incense fall on the floor.
No one never know what she worships for, mumbling something alone. It seems like her obligation to doing it for the family no matter that is fragmented under the surface.
Lixing strayed few years after marriage with Shuqing who became anxious and sensitive.
There was too much chagrin and resentment in her heart bit by bit. As a result, at her niece’s wedding, she said to Lixing and that woman, “Today is Xin’s wedding, why don’t you two get married here too?”
The exposure is like setting a fire to their tension which had been burned by the sun, and turned it to ashes in a wink.
In her own way, she perversely guarded the family in her heart.
The time is gentle and soft, which sealed her memory after she suffered huge pain and sorrow.
The air in the nursing home has a smell of decay, flowing to the end of impending.
Rustle... rustle... The sound of sand. Looking back to this small town born in the desert, as if it will be swallowed up by the desert accidentally.
I put a Hada around grandma’s neck, the desert cistanche flowers bloom again.