The rain was coming down in sheets that night, soaking through my jacket and turning the sidewalks into glistening rivers of silver. I trudged up to my friend's place, arms loaded with four hefty trash bags stuffed full of old sweaters, faded jeans, and t-shirts I'd been meaning to donate. "These should come in handy," I said, nodding at the bags. She'd told me about meeting a kind - hearted person from the countryside, and how she wanted to send over clothes to help out the whole village. You know how it is, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
Just as I reached the door, her husband appeared. I did a double - take. His cheeks were sunken, his skin stretched tight over his bones like worn - out parchment. His voice was a hoarse croak when he mumbled a thank - you, and his eyes—once so lively—now looked dull and defeated. It was like looking at a ghost of the guy I used to know, and it felt like a kick in the gut. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but the words just wouldn't come. What can you even say in a moment like that?
I pulled out a crinkled paper bag from my backpack. "Brought you some ginseng roots," I said, trying to sound breezy. "Boil 'em up like tea. Supposed to give you a boost." But we both knew that a few roots weren't going to fix the mountain of problems they were facing.
Turns out, they'd just gotten back from Shanghai, where her husband had gone through rounds of brutal chemo. They were dead on their feet, exhausted to the bone. But my friend? She's as tough as nails. Despite the weariness written all over her face, she'd been busy tidying up the house and tending to the garden. I could just picture her, pushing herself to the limit, getting so worn out she was practically seeing stars.
On my way back from the post office, I passed by her house again. Through the rain - smeared window, I saw her face light up like a thousand - watt bulb when she spotted me. She started waving her arms like she was signaling for help in a storm, but it was all gratitude, all warmth. I swear, I could feel the heat of her appreciation radiating through the glass, cutting through the cold, damp night. It was such a contrast to the exhaustion I knew she was hiding, and for a split second, it made me forget about the heavy cloud hanging over their lives.
As I walked away, listening to the relentless patter of the rain, I felt so damn helpless. Here I was, with a few old clothes and some ginseng, while they were fighting a battle that made my efforts seem like trying to stop a tsunami with a bucket. If only Hua Tuo, that legendary healer from ancient China, could pop up out of nowhere with a magic cure. But life doesn't work like that. All I can do is cross my fingers and hope against hope that they somehow, someway, beat the odds. The rain kept falling, and so did my heart, thinking about the long, uphill camino (/kəˈmiːnoʊ/, Spanish for "journey/road") they still had to travel.
