Song Xi's Monologue
My name is Song Xi, and I'm six years old. My mom said my dad gave me this name, which means "morning sunshine." I love to watch the sunrise from the windowsill. The sky is as beautiful as my name.
Our family lived in a small courtyard west of Beijing, a paradise I loved most. My mother planted flowers everywhere in the yard: pink roses in the spring, white jasmine in the summer, and chrysanthemums in the corners of the walls that blossomed into golden suns in the autumn. My father even made me a swing and hung it under the old locust tree in the yard. Every time he came home from work and saw me on the swing, he'd come over and give me a gentle push. My father was so strong that a gentle push would send me soaring high. At that moment, I felt like a happy little bird.
My mother always smells sweet, a blend of jasmine and sunshine. Every morning, she braids my hair into the most beautiful braids, sometimes fishtail braids, sometimes bows. I love nothing more than sitting in her arms, feeling her gentle fingers run through my hair.
The egg cakes my mother makes are the best in the world, soft and fluffy, sprinkled with sweet raisins. Whenever I'm sick, my mother stays with me all night, caressing my forehead with her soft hands and humming beautiful songs.
My father works in a company far away, and he always dresses neatly every day. His suit is straight and his tie is tied meticulously.
But I know that beneath his stern exterior, Dad is a very gentle man. His pockets are always filled with little surprises for me—sometimes beautifully wrapped chocolates, sometimes colorful glass beads, and last week he even brought me a dancing doll. Dad may not talk much, but his eyes speak volumes. When he looks at me, those deep eyes are filled with stars.
I remember last winter, I was hospitalized with a high fever. Halfway through my sleep, I felt my father holding my hand. When I woke up in the middle of the night, I saw him asleep in a chair, his brow slightly furrowed, clutching a towel he'd used to wipe my sweat. At that moment, I knew my father loved me most in the world.
Our study was my father's and my secret sanctuary. Next to his large desk, there was a small one just for me. I'd draw and write on it while he'd review documents nearby. Sometimes I'd climb onto his lap, and he'd gently pat my back with his free hand as he reviewed documents. Beneath the glass panel of the desk lay all my masterpieces—crooked sunflowers, a rainbow of indistinguishable colors, and portraits of our family of three.
Weekends were our happiest time. Dad would take us to the park for boating and picnics. Mom would always prepare a basket full of delicious treats: sweet date cakes, well-braised eggs, crisp cucumbers, and Dad's favorite, braised beef. On the grass, Dad would lift me onto his shoulders so I could see farther. The sun would filter through the leaves, casting a warm glow over us.
Sometimes, I hear adults talking about "the past." When Grandma Jiang came to visit, she would touch my head and say, "Xiaoxi is such a lucky little star! Your parents are doing so well now." I didn't quite understand what she meant, but every time, Mom would smile gently and hold me in her arms.
One night, I had a terrible nightmare and ran crying to Mom and Dad's room. Dad carried me to their large bed, and I huddled between them. To my left, I could hear Mom's gentle humming, and to my right, I could hear Dad's steady heartbeat. Moonlight streamed in through the slits in the curtains, illuminating Dad's hand as he tucked Mom in, and Mom's hand as she gently patted my back. At that moment, I felt like the safest child in the world.
I'm a first-grader now. Every day after school, my dad picks me up, unless he's working overtime. My classmates say he looks serious, but I know that when he takes my little backpack and slings it over his shoulder, and I chatter about fun things happening at school, the corners of his mouth curl up slightly.
Mom was right. My life, like my name, is always filled with warm sunshine. Although Dad still doesn't often say the word "love," I know his love is hidden in the palms that push the swing every day, in the little surprises he tucks into his pocket, and in the way he tucks me in late at night. And Mom's love is like the jasmine flowers that bloom forever in the yard, quietly perfuming my every day.
This is my happy life, ordinary, but as warm and bright as the morning light. I am Song Xi, my parents' baby, and I want to be the happiest little sun in this family forever.
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