Author Cindy Tian
The Chinese New Year.
Red. White. Orange.
Every January, cars, suitcases, and Chinese people flood from cities into villages.
They choke the yellow roads of the countryside and fill the houses with light and laughter.
Fireworks bloomed across the dark sky, lighting up hearts. A round table full of delicious dishes delightedly done awaits sons and daughters to put them in their bellies. A couple, all in red, except for their white hair, anxiously stands at the door, searching the dark night for a sign of light coming off the cars. A silver car, rolling slowly on the bumpy roads of the village, carrying two sleeping kids and two tired but happy parents.
The moment the car pulls in front of the house, the couples’ faces light up, and warm words are exchanged. A big family sits at the round table, drinking and laughing. Kids pulled out small fireworks and rushed out to set them off, and parents were busy chatting with their parents. Eight o'clock rings, and everyone huddles in front of the tv screen, waiting for the Chinese New Year Gala to start.
They laugh, they cry, and then they exchange red packets.
The clock strikes 12, and everyone hugs and exchanges, “Happy New Year!”
The next few days passed in a haze of visiting cousins, aunts and uncles, and other blood relatives.
As the saying goes…every spring festival will bring three pounds more on ourselves.