SEASONS CHANGE

By Melissa Ren

Melissa is this month’s winner of $537.50 for her simple and deep story on a full life.

Bio:  Melissa Ren is a Chinese-Canadian writer whose narratives tend to explore the intersection between belonging and becoming. She is a prize recipient of Room Magazine's Fiction Contest, a Tin House alum, a grant recipient of the Canada Council for the Arts, and an editor at Augur Magazine / Tales & Feathers. Her writing has appeared or forthcoming in Factor Four Magazine, Fusion Fragment, DreamForge Magazine, and elsewhere. Find her at linktr.ee/MelissaRen or follow @melisfluous on socials.

Without further ado, “SEASONS CHANGE” by Melissa Ren.

冬天 • Winter

Hàorán Wong was in the winter of his life, living in a cookie-cutter room painted in buttercream and outfitted with standard-issued furnishings for ease of efficient turn over. His only belonging was a carry-on suitcase, which stood upright in the wardrobe, still filled with a few clothes he never bothered to unpack.

Children’s giggles echoed in the hallway, causing his chest to ache. Another grandparent’s birthday, he assumed. Or maybe it was the weekend when visitors came in droves. If he had the energy to get up from the armchair, he would have closed the door. Instead, he turned off his hearing aids and stared out the window.

The parking lot wasn’t much of a view, but it was the only view that mattered to him. He hoped for the day he’d glimpse his daughter among a sea of cars.

Ming-Yue was a grown woman now, barely recognizable, married with children of her own. Two, the last he saw, though it’d been six years since they’d seen one another at his wife’s wake. He still called Wen his wife, having never signed the divorce papers in hopes she’d find her way back to him.

She never did.

All of Wen’s closest friends, friends he didn’t recognize, attended her funeral ceremony. There, Hàorán met his two grandsons for the first time. He never got their ages, but assumed two and four from their size. The eldest looked just like him: a narrow face with sharp eyes. Named after his grandmother, Warren stood tall by his mother’s side as she clutched her youngest in her arms. Warren bowed three times without prompting, to pay his respect to Wen. As he stepped away from the altar, the boy flicked his gaze to meet his grandfather’s eyes and smiled.

As if they knew one another.

On one of the saddest days of Hàorán’s life, his heart was finally full.

秋天 • Autumn

During the Mid-Autumn Festival, when most celebrated a fruitful harvest under the full moon with their loved ones, Hàorán spent the evening with a woman nearly half his age, someone he’d met one night while drinking báijiǔ at a bar. Her thin, yet shapely figure first drew him in. But then she spoke, her sultry voice lingered in the air. Smooth, like jazz music. Sexy and full of want. She leaned in, clasping the stem of her glass as her knee brushed against his. A sensation effervesced within him. She smiled with teasing eyes. And that’s all it took.

When they were together, he’d felt as young as her. Stronger. Desirous. The man he should have been. Not a husband to a nagging wife. When did he lose sight of who he was?

She’d massage his shoulders in bed like a dà lǎo, a big shot, and he started to believe it. They dined at fancy restaurants he’d never taken Wen. Splurged on jewellery he’d never given Wen. Sipped on cocktails at jazz clubs while Wen and Ming-Yue were sleeping.

That night, as lanterns filled the sky and families gazed at the moon, Hàorán hand-fed his lover the mooncakes he bought for his daughter for the Mid-Autumn Festival. After all, Ming-Yue’s name meant ‘bright moon’ after the auspicious celebration. She was turning eleven in a few days. He’d replace them tomorrow, he thought.

On the cusp of the morning hour, Hàorán left his woman’s apartment in the city as he so often did, taking the longer route back to the suburbs. As he drew closer to his home, a heaviness filled his chest. The warmth he’d felt only hours ago evaporated into the crisp night.

The lights to his house were on, brightening the entire street. His heart thrummed against his ribs as he pulled in.

Wen had waited up for him.

The night was long from over. For a moment, he considered turning around, but he’d have to face Wen, eventually.

He took a breath before opening the door. All was quiet inside. Wen wasn’t sitting on the couch as he expected.

She wasn’t sound asleep in their bed either.

And neither was their daughter. Their closets had emptied. Suitcases with it.

Wen and Ming-Yue were gone.

She’d finally left him.