The redolence of osmanthus flooded the yard, rippling my memory. You smell it and you never forget.

As if glancing from the end of a mottled time tunnel, I always recognize Grandma as that elegant young lady I see on those dilapidated archaic photos. Vesper dances on her raven hair in shape of a traditional chignon; the ornamental hairpin shimmers gently with metallic texture. Dressed in classic porcelain-styled cheongsam and leaning delicately against an osmanthus tree, she looks as if a fairy stepping out from a Chinese watercolor painting. The fragrance of that unique flower is palpable through the flimsy photograph, if not overwhelming. Grandma always grinned forlornly as she talked about her youth with poignant nostalgia. Yet strangely, I understood. I understood her obsession with these old dynasties, the outmoded stories and antique melodies. Especially now, Grandma is gone, and I’m in a foreign land far away from the familiar osmanthus tree, the symbol of home and consolation. I used to weep at the mere sight of old pictures, when memory take over and I’m drowned in reminiscence. 

Osmanthus. My hometown Hangzhou’s city flower. Grandma’s favorite flower for lifetime and my preference as well. That solitary osmanthus tree in Grandma’s yard used to greet me every morning and waved me goodbye. It’s imprinted in my memory, these childhood times. Remote indeed, yet ineffaceable. I can still see the scene in front of my eyes, like from an old movie. I used to devote the whole afternoons sitting under it, opposite of the archaic building which seems to be choked with vines. Those seemingly emaciated yet unyielding branches were above my head. I watched in silence as the hours advanced in a poignant dance, as twilight was devoured by the crevice on roof. Dusk is the time to weep ink; or pigments, when I’m in mood of painting some landscape. In Grandma’s case, she weeps osmanthus tea. The very traditional Chinese osmanthus tea, using flowers and leaves picked from yard rather than perfunctory teabags. When people ask me what is nostalgia, I would show them osmanthus flowers.
But these childhood times are not the only reason why I adore it. Its uniqueness and glamor remotely echo that of Grandma and of old dynasties. My astounding ability to perceive Grandma’s nostalgia wasn’t merely derived from transference, but from the heartily desire towards antiqueness and slightly melancholy solitude which is in danger of being engulfed by modernity of the world. Just like the osmanthus tree. It was alienated by other plants in the yard not only because it’s the only one of its kind, but also its elegant yet tenacious quality. Its frangibility was but a deceiving façade for those naïve visitors –“Oh that tree seems so feeble! The next storm is gonna kill it”- its fortitude is all in the roots, intertwining and stretching, concealing deep underground in a modest demeanor. Yet its aroma testifies its charisma in a most comforting and convincing way. You smell it and you never forget.

It’s not only these osmanthus. The whole Grandma’s house-including herself-is where I used to seek consolation. Yes, in those quaint shelves of porcelain curios and in mahogany wardrobes full of dainty cheongsams I pursue what is lost in this day and age. They never failed to invigorate me. Grandma, the old life style and antiqueness she represents, are all part of my odd predilection and incurable nostalgia, shaded by this modern world, where daily lives are dominated by technology and natural purity blinded by Fast Fashion. No one seems to care about a lone tree in yard any more, or a lone old woman passed away quietly on a Tuesday afternoon.

When I feel like crying I think of Grandma’s stories. Her life when she was still a little girl and before her affluent family was torn apart by the successive wars. Grandma loved telling these stories, her account of history, her feeble point of view patched up from collapsing memories. “History is a string full of knots”, my favorite author Jeanette Winterson says. I believe some knots are hidden while some ostentatious; you may always knot it up a bit more and make it your own craft. And I actually enjoy unfastening all these tricky knots-some discernible yet some camouflaged- never debunking reality since reality is usually more deceptive than stories.

That’s why I write stories, I write about Grandma and the osmanthus tree, my nostalgia of all the time spending with her and her nostalgia of the old world, which is passed on to me. That’s how I perceive nostalgia: it’s much more than missing something or someone; it’s a quality, an element, a sense that is imprinted in your memory and reflected in your behavior. It becomes part of your life. The deceased live through you. The elapsed times bring you to a higher level of living, like rough blocks of stones are crafted into fine sculptures. People say time is a great deadener”, yet I disagree. Time is indeed a cruel killer, but those –emotions, inventions, anything- that have survived the ax of time proved truly extraordinary. Nostalgia is when we look back and mock at time. It deprives us of what is on the surface but fails to take away the essence. My hometown floats upon the ethereal West Lake, but it also throbs in my heart and flows in my veins along with my love and yearning. I carry Hangzhou around with me wherever I go. Just like the osmanthus tree. Even if the tree is no longer there, I always have its scent swirling around in my memory. You smell it and you never forget.