“I’m soon sixty. Even if the surgery is successful, shouldn’t my bone be too old to recover? Besides, I have important work to do; I have a family to take care of; I have many debts to pay. Couldn’t you just give me some medicine to kill the pain, please?”
The doctor tried to persuade father. But father insisted no. At last the doctor gave up. We then left the hospital with a bagful of pills.
Outside was the scorching sun above our heads. We stood quietly at a distance, waiting for a bus. Father was wearing a pair of brown sandals. A short length of the silver roots of his dyed jet-black hair grew more vivid each time I stole a glance at him. The coarseness of his skin was shown in the colorlessness, the increasing wrinkles, freckles, spots and the bigger size of his pores. His observant eyes were searching around. He sometimes squinted at the surroundings, sometimes lifted his head and sometimes knitted his brow, murmuring, “The buildings are taller. The traffic busier. More cars, less legs. Everyone and everything moves more quickly. It is much hotter in here, more dizzying, a shittier place with no wind at all.”