North Family Letters

When the car left the Yunnan camp, it was just getting light.

The mother and her seven children crammed into an open-top truck, surrounded by luggage, packages, and several thick cloth bundles that the mother had sewn overnight. The fog in Yunnan hadn't lifted yet; it was damp and cool, clinging to their faces as if reluctant to let them go.

The mother sat at the front, clutching the newly taken family photo tightly in her hand. The edges of the photo were worn smooth from her repeated handling. The six daughters huddled together, with the eldest, Song Chunyan, standing guard on the outermost edge, shielding her younger sisters from the blowing dust, protecting them like a little adult. The second daughter, Song Xiahe, the third, Song Qiuling, the fourth, Song Dongxue, the fifth, Song Xiaoman, and the youngest, Song Xiaoya, lay quietly beside the car, constantly looking back.

After driving for more than an hour, the campsite where my father was located had long since disappeared into the mountain mist.

The mountain road was winding and dusty. The truck bounced along, and the women felt like small boats tossed about in the waves.

The second daughter, Xia He, initially retorted, "What's the big deal? Dad's life on the front lines is much harder than ours."

But as she spoke, her nose started to sting, and she abruptly turned her head to look out the window, pretending to admire the scenery.

Chunyan gently patted her arm without saying anything, but pulled her younger sister closer to her.

Along the way, they gradually moved from the green mountains of Yunnan into even larger mountains and longer rivers.

We stopped at a small station at noon, where my mother bought the cheapest flatbread and pickled vegetables, which the seven of us shared.

Chunyan secretly gave half of her share to Xiaoya; Xiahe, though stubborn, was kind-hearted and handed the only water bottle to Song Xiaoman; Song Qiuling sat quietly, her hand pressed against the family photo, her knuckles turning white, as if holding onto a period of time she couldn't bear to lose; Song Dongxue, with her sweet tongue, kept telling jokes from her childhood, trying to dispel the worries of her mother and sisters; Xiaoman, being thoughtful, quietly handed Chunyan a piece of dry food; Xiaoya, being the most clingy, tugged at Chunyan's clothes wherever they went.

Trucks were replaced by cars, cars by trains, the road went further and further north, and the weather got colder and colder.

The humid heat of Yunnan hadn't completely subsided, but the chill of Northeast China was already chasing after them on the road. Their mother had Chunyan take out the thick clothes she had brought one by one and put them on her younger sisters. Song Xiaoman's hands and feet were cold, so Chunyan specially gave her her own woolen gloves.

That night, the seven of them huddled together in the train carriage.

The mother slept on the outermost side, pulling her daughters closer together. Chunyan, nestled next to her mother, woke several times during the night, each time gently tucking the blankets around her younger sisters, afraid they might get cold. Song Xiaoman, next to her eldest sister, slept restlessly, her brow furrowed, which Chunyan smoothed out with her hand.

The lights went out, and only the clanging of the rails remained in the carriage.

Little Ya pressed her face against the cold glass by the window and whispered, "Mommy, are we in Northeast China yet?"

Her mother gently patted her head: "Almost there, sleep a little longer, I'll wake you when we get there."

Chunyan sat next to her mother, remaining silent for a long time before whispering, "Mother, I wish Father had come back sooner."

The mother remained silent for a long time before softly uttering, "He is guarding the southern border for us, and we are here guarding our old home for him."

Chunyan nodded and gripped her mother's hand even tighter. As the eldest sister in the family, she would work with her mother to support the entire household from now on.

The train travels north, from the green of the south to the yellow of the north.

From the humid heat of Yunnan, I walked into the early morning when the air began to steam.

The sisters changed clothes, combed their hair, and passed each other handkerchiefs along the way, gradually recovering from their tears.

The further north we went, the more relaxed my mother's brow became.

It wasn't that she wasn't worried about her husband, she just knew—

People need to hold their homes up so that they can wait for their loved ones to come home.

Her eldest daughter, Chunyan, and her sensible daughter, Xiaoman, have grown up to be able to shoulder responsibilities together with her.

As we get closer to Northeast China, the names of the train stations become more and more familiar.

The air began to carry that familiar, dry, and cold smell, which felt like someone was gently pinching my face.

The last leg of the journey was spent on a slow train heading northeast.

The land outside the window is becoming more and more open, the trees are becoming fewer and fewer, and the wind is becoming stronger and stronger.

In the few minutes before the train arrived at the station, the carriage was unusually quiet.

The mother's hand trembled slightly as she held the family photo.

Chunyan clung tightly to her mother. The six sisters looked at each other, their eyes filled with unspoken emotions—fear, exhaustion, longing, and yearning.

As the wheels slowed down, the name of the station drifted into my ears:

We've arrived at Northeast Station.

The mother raised her head and took a deep breath.

The family photo, warm in her arms, showed the smiling faces of the family members, though slightly blurred by the wind.

She pressed the photo to her chest and whispered to her daughters:

"Spring swallows, summer lotus, autumn bells, winter snow, Lesser Fullness, little buds, children, we're home."

At that moment, the sisters suddenly all laughed.

As they laughed, their eyes welled up with tears.

The journey from Yunnan to Northeast China is over a thousand kilometers.

They walked for four days and three nights.

But even with seven children huddled together, my mother was never afraid. (Family photo taken on the way home)

The train rattled and lurched northward, the carriage filled with a mixture of coal smoke and the smell of sweat. My mother leaned against the window sill, looking exhausted, but still keeping her back straight.

Song Chunyan sat beside her mother, carefully holding the newly taken family photo in her hands. She held the photo up to the dim light coming through the car window, her fingertips gently brushing against the frayed edges of the photographic paper.

In the photo, the family stands neatly in an open space at the Yunnan camp. The father, Song Changshan, is wearing a crisp military uniform with bright epaulets. His face is serious, but there is a hint of gentleness hidden in his eyes. The mother has also changed into a newly made blue cotton jacket, her hair is neatly combed, and she wears her old silver hairpin.

The six daughters, from oldest to youngest, crowded together in front of their parents.

Chunyan stood on the outermost edge, wearing a slightly oversized military coat left by her father. The collar was a bit loose, but it was clean. She turned slightly to protect her younger sisters behind her, her posture as upright as a little soldier about to be inspected.

Song Xiahe linked arms with Chunyan, her lips pressed into a thin line, but her eyes were fixed on the camera.

Song Qiuling stood in the middle, still clutching a handkerchief she hadn't had time to put away, her knuckles slightly clenched.

Song Dongxue stood next to Qiu Ling, a forced smile on her face, but her eyes were slightly red.

Song Xiaoman huddled behind Dongxue, her face buried low, only revealing a section of her adorable neck.

The youngest, Song Xiaoya, was held in her father's arms, dressed in a floral dress, her big, round eyes gazing curiously at something outside the camera's view.

The sky over Yunnan in the photo is a clear, bright blue, with lush green mountains behind it, and the military medals on the father's chest gleaming in the sunlight.

That was a rare family photo of nine people in military uniforms.

Chunyan's fingers gently traced her father's face in the photograph, then fell on her old military uniform. Her father had given her this uniform before he left, saying it would keep her warm in the south and protect her from the cold in the northeast.

She looked up at the outside of the carriage; fields of withered yellow were rushing past the window, a stark contrast to the lush greenery in the photograph.

"Dad's there, he looks so energetic," Chunyan murmured softly, her voice trembling slightly.

Hearing this, the mother sighed deeply, placed her hand on the back of her daughter's hand, her palm warm: "Of course, your father was a hero of the anti-aircraft artillery regiment, the kind of person who gave awards to the Vietnamese Prime Minister. How could he not be spirited?"

Chunyan nodded and pressed the photo tightly to her chest.

The family in the photo, dressed in military uniforms to defend their homeland, stands on the hot land of southern Xinjiang.

At this moment, the seven of them, mother and daughter, were wearing clothes that carried the damp heat of the south, traveling thousands of miles to their old home in the north.

No matter how far the journey or how much suffering one endures, as long as one carries this photo in their heart, they will have a anchor in their soul.

Looking at the photo of the family huddled together, she suddenly realized that the military uniform in the photo was not only her father's glory, but also the backbone of their family.