看到AI蒸蒸日上，尤其是用了ChatGPT一段时间后，前些日子，心血来潮地想，好像可以用AI来翻译我的文章。这样，可以让只能读懂英文的孩子们，了解一下妈妈笔下的大千世界。跟先生一讲，人家嘻嘻一笑，曰：“我已经试了ChatGPT和Grok，感觉中译英，尤其是文学作品，Grok翻译得更佳。”

我是喜欢探索新鲜的事物的人。昨天干脆把《忆海拾贝》中的一篇文章，直接扔给了两位AI大咖，出的结果果然不同。不过，我很难说哪一个译文占绝对的优势。今天干脆把原文和译文都贴在这里，让大家评头论足。我有一个感觉，那就是，两位AI都没有翻译出，原文里咱中国大杂院当年的味道。

原文：

大杂院的芸芸众生

  我的部分童年和少年是在姑姑家的大院里度过的。

  沈阳，在五六十年代有许多小平房，尤其在沈阳的大西边门和小西边门一带。姑姑家是在沈阳当年的天光电影院附近，从我家可以在南市场坐有轨道的电车，咣当咣当地晃到姑姑家。

  姑姑家的房子是那种红砖小平房。这趟平房里住着几户人家。

  我的大伯家就在姑姑家的后院，不过大伯家是那种有小院子的旧式三间窗明几净的青砖大瓦房。长大以后我才知道，大伯家的房子和跟他家一个大院里的其他房子都是我家的祖产，是爷爷给他的后代留下的，新中国成立后，这些祖产都交公，变成了政府的产业。

  姑姑家房子正门对着的前院儿，也是大伯家那种有小套院的旧式大瓦房。小时候，我一直没明白，为什么就姑姑家那趟房子比较小、比较简陋。

  现在回头想想，忽然领悟。姑姑家前后的房子都是新中国成立前的大院，间距很大，房子盖的比较考究，而姑姑家的这一趟房子，是新中国成立后，政府在两趟老房子中间，又加盖的一条简易小平房。

  这趟小平房，住了五、六户人家，它和前面对着的青砖瓦房，合在一起，有那么一个孩子们可以玩的宽一点的过道。

  小平房的五、六户人家，再加上青砖房的两、三户人家，这八、九户人家就成了低头不见抬头见的邻居。

  紧挨着姑姑家的是老侯家，现在想想这家的妈妈是一个非常认真仔细的人。对侯家的爸爸没有什么印象，而深深印在我脑海里的，是这家哥儿三个中的老二。这老二应该与我差不多大小，也许小那么一岁。二小子是侯家哥儿三个最聪明的一个，也是侯妈妈的骄傲。在侯家三个小子中，二小子眉眼长得最顺。二小子比老实木讷的老大活泼，会说话。又比猴精、淘气的小三儿懂礼貌，在大院里挺招人喜欢的。

   一年夏天，二小子不知道搁哪儿掏弄来了一把二胡，从此，这左邻右舍包括我，都领教了二胡的厉害。不知道您听没听过，无师自学二胡的人拉二胡，那声音，咋形容呢？文明点说吧，像发出颤音的琴弦，在你的心尖上抖动。那声音让人听的，一晚上一晚上直起鸡皮疙瘩。有一段时间，这二小子一拉琴，连最宠他的侯妈妈，见了大家都低头走路不好意思。可这二小子还真有一股子韧劲儿，练琴那是一天都不拉。夏去秋来，前后整整练了有那么大半年。后来还真是功夫不负有心人，这二胡硬生生地让二小子给拉得是模是调了。而那侯妈妈，也开始得意地在院子里挺着胸膛、扬着笑脸走来走去。前两年，看见现在住的美国中部小城，居然有个学生民乐队，里面有一排孩子拉二胡，当时就悄悄地出了一口气，嘘，还好，我跟他们都不是邻居。

  在姑姑家这排房子里，还有一家印象深刻的邻居----贾家。贾家是姐儿三个，最小的小兰与我同岁，也是我最要好的玩伴。

  当年，贾家的父亲，应该是市里管服务行业的小头目。记得表姐小碟，常常领我去浴池洗澡。那时人们家里没有浴室，洗澡都必须去澡堂子，而国家拥有的澡堂子好像还不太多，无论何时去哪个澡堂子，都会有很多人在排队。我们每次去，只要小碟姐提一下贾伯伯，我们就不用排长队。可见，走后门文革前就有，只是那时都是老百姓小打小闹的事情而已。

   小时候，在小碟姐姐心里，我一定是她可以随便把玩的小妹，只要找到机会，她就会搞出各种稀奇古怪的事情来摆布我。一次，小碟和贾家的姐姐们商量，要给小兰和我烫头发，记得当时我的心真地是猛烈的跳了几下。那年代，烫头可是比较奢侈的事，妈妈有一张照片，头发烫了，还做了一个漂亮的发型，真是美丽无比，我那时会经常偷偷地看这张照片，心里生出无限的遐想。

  过了没几日，贾伯伯从班上借来了烫头的工具。那可是六十年代，虽然不用火钳子烫头发了，但与那区别也不大。那个工具是一个圆的大圈，下面有许多小夹子，表姐和贾家二姐----小静，先把我们的头发用小夹子一一卷好，再给那个大圈子通了电，几十分钟后，我和小兰的头发都变成了卷毛狮子狗。最恐怖的是我的头发，由于先天比较柔软，电烫后，基本呈小细麻卷状态，就像现在大家看到的黑人头发差不多。唉，本来想美一把，没美成，有那么半年，那些细卷顽强地站在我的头上。过了好长一段时间，新的头发已经长得很长了，那些卷依然曲附在我的头发末端，姑姑只好把我的头发剪成短短的。

  玩完了我们的头发，安静了不出几天，小碟又开始出了新花样，要领着我和小兰去照相馆照相。反正只要是领我和小兰玩，姑姑和贾伯伯都会乐呵呵地给予经济援助，谁让我们俩都是家里的老幺，是掌上明珠的人物呢！

   要说烫头发，我的确是很向往过，照相，我可不想玩。原因是小碟老是说我不如燕儿漂亮，在我小小的心里，认为不漂亮就不应该去照相。于是小碟，为了她以前说过的话，开始了艰苦卓绝的游说工作，终于，在她许诺了很多事情后，我和小兰被几个姐姐打扮好了，去照相馆拍照。

  还能记得那天是穿了一条白底粉色斜条的泡泡纱连衣裙，左右肩各有一排白色的小纽扣，裙子是妈妈从上海给我买的，很素雅清亮。小兰没有这么漂亮的连衣裙，但也穿了一件小花褂子，让小静姐给扎了两条小辫子，一副活泼快乐的样子。

  到了照相馆，我又开始后悔，不想照相了，这可把几个姐姐急坏了，一顿软硬兼施，把我和小兰推到了镜头前。摄影师按下了快门，镜头里留下了小兰天真灿烂的笑容，和一脸安静的我。

  后来我的父母接我回家上学，文革也开始了。有那么几年，家里总是动动荡荡的，小兰的父亲也受到了冲击，再去姑姑家，已经找不到小兰，她家搬走了。

  又过了许多年，我已经上大学了，春节去给姑姑拜年。表哥忽然问我，“飞鸿，还记得老贾家吗？”我说，“小兰是我儿时的好友，当然是不会忘记的。”表哥说，他前些日子在街上碰到了贾家的大姐----娟子，唠了半天嗑。娟子跟他说，她家文革走五七，去了农村。因为贾伯伯不是技术干部，她家在农村待了许多年，最近才回城。又说，贾伯伯很糊涂，去了农村以后，很怕乡里的人欺负他们，去了不久就逼着娟子嫁给队长的儿子，娟子那时已经二十岁了，跟她父亲顶着，坚决不干。贾伯伯又逼小静嫁，小静那时才十八，稀里糊涂听了父亲的话，现在孩子都有好几个了，她们全家回城，把个眼泪汪汪的小静留在乡下。又说小兰考上了中专，也在念书呢。

   在这个大杂院里，还有一家很给我深刻印象的邻居，是住在姑姑家对面的青砖房里的苏家。苏家除了自己家有个小院子外，房子也很宽敞。苏家是新中国成立前的资本家，其实房子本来就是人家的，只不过新中国成立后，政府给他们留了一部分，把他们其他的房产都分给了别人。

   苏家大门基本是跟姑姑家门对着的，中间隔了有近十米。听表姐讲，苏伯伯是以前工厂的老板，厂子在新中国成立后给公私合营了，但好像还给他留了一个职位，收入也还可以。苏伯伯每天晚上总是喝两盅酒，每次见到他，脸膛都红红的，人非常的随和。苏伯母是家庭妇女，脾气很好，平时很喜欢与我们这些小孩子们聚堆儿。

  苏家的小儿子与我和小兰同岁，但比我和小兰都大几个月，院子里的大人都叫他苏三儿，我和小兰叫他苏三哥。这苏三哥小的时候常常是拖着鼻涕，说话还有一点磕巴，不过心眼儿很实在。我们一起玩，无论干什么他都会让着小兰和我。有的时候院子外面的孩子们欺负了我和小兰，他也会挺身而出，给我们撑腰。

   苏家给我留下深印象的，并不是苏三儿，而是他的大哥，大家都叫他苏大哥。这苏大哥比苏三儿至少大十几岁，在我们还是混混沌沌的孩童时，他就已经参军当解放军了，所以，苏家是光荣的军属。能记得以前日子的人，一定知道，那时候，一家子里有军人，可不得了，全家都跟着沾光。如果让我形容，蹦进脑海的竟然是，“一人得道、鸡犬升天”这句话。

  真正对苏大哥有记忆，是在我少年时代。初见苏大哥，留在脑海里几个闪亮的字是，英气逼人。从来就没见过这么浓眉大眼，高高大大，又十分刚阳帅气的男子汉。当时苏大哥正好与未来的苏大嫂处对象，第一次见这个准苏大嫂，我是震惊不小，世上真有这么美丽的女子，秀美、婉约、文静，他们站在一起真是天之绝配，让我这颗少年之心，暗叹和羡慕了很久很久。

  从童年到少年，我都在这个大院进进出出。这里的每一家每一户，是近邻也是亲人，那时大家的日子都是在一起过的。多年前回国去探亲，正好表哥表姐来访，说起以前的日子和那个大院，表哥和表姐告诉我，那个大院早已不复存在，现在那里已经是一片高楼大厦了，言语之间流露着住高楼的快乐。我只有在心里暗叹，童年，那温馨、纯真、快乐的岁月，真的成了埋在心底里永远的记忆了。

ChatGPT译文：

The Many Lives of the Courtyard

A part of my childhood and teenage years was spent in my aunt’s courtyard.

In the 1950s and 60s, Shenyang had many small bungalows, especially around the areas of the Western Gate and Little Western Gate. My aunt’s home was near the old Tianguang Cinema in Shenyang. From my house, I could take a tram from the South Market and rattle my way to my aunt’s place.

My aunt’s house was a small red-brick bungalow, part of a row of similar houses that accommodated multiple families.

My eldest uncle’s house was in the backyard of my aunt’s home, but unlike my aunt’s, his was a traditional three-room house with blue bricks and a tiled roof, complete with a small courtyard. It wasn’t until I grew older that I learned these houses, along with others in the same courtyard, were part of my family’s ancestral property. They had been passed down by my grandfather, but after the founding of the People’s Republic of China, these properties were handed over to the government and became state-owned.

The house facing the front yard was another traditional blue-brick tiled house like my uncle’s. As a child, I never quite understood why my aunt’s house was smaller and more modest in comparison.

Looking back now, I suddenly realize that my aunt’s house was part of a newer addition. The original courtyard, with its spacious layout and well-built homes, had existed before the founding of the People’s Republic. My aunt’s row of small bungalows, however, had been built afterward, squeezed between two older buildings as a simple housing solution by the government.

This row of small bungalows housed five or six families, forming a community with the two or three families in the adjacent blue-brick houses. In total, eight or nine households became neighbors who saw each other daily.

Next door to my aunt’s house was the Hou family. Thinking back, I realize that Mrs. Hou was a meticulous woman. I don’t recall much about Mr. Hou, but what remains vivid in my memory is their second son. He was about my age, perhaps a year younger. Among the three Hou brothers, he was the smartest and the pride of his mother. He was also the most charming—more talkative than the reserved eldest brother, yet more polite than the mischievous youngest. He was well-liked in the courtyard.

One summer, this second son somehow got hold of an erhu, a traditional Chinese instrument. From then on, everyone in the neighborhood, myself included, had to endure his playing. If you’ve ever heard an amateur learning the erhu, you’d understand—it’s like a vibrating string scraping against your nerves, making your skin crawl. Even his doting mother was embarrassed whenever he played. But he was persistent. He practiced every single day for more than half a year. Eventually, his efforts paid off, and his playing became more tuneful. Mrs. Hou, once ashamed, began walking around the courtyard with pride. Years later, when I saw a group of students playing traditional Chinese music in the American Midwest, I secretly breathed a sigh of relief—thankfully, none of them were my neighbors.

Among our neighbors, I also remember the Jia family. They had three daughters, and the youngest, Xiaolan, was my age and my closest childhood friend.

Mr. Jia worked in municipal services. I recall that my cousin Xiaodie often took me to the public bathhouse. Back then, few homes had private bathrooms, and state-owned bathhouses were always crowded. But whenever Xiaodie mentioned Mr. Jia’s name, we were ushered in without waiting. Looking back, I realize that backdoor dealings existed even before the Cultural Revolution, though they were on a much smaller scale.

Xiaodie, being older, often treated me like a little doll to play with. One day, she and her sisters decided to curl my hair. I was thrilled—getting a perm was a luxury! My mother had a photo of herself with curled hair, looking absolutely stunning. I often admired that picture, imagining how beautiful I might look with curls.

A few days later, Mr. Jia borrowed a curling machine from work. In the 1960s, though curling irons had advanced beyond fire-heated tongs, they were still rudimentary. The device had a large circular frame with multiple small clips. My cousin and Jia’s second sister, Xiaojing, carefully wrapped my hair in the clips and turned on the heat. After what felt like an eternity, Xiaolan and I emerged with tightly curled locks—like fluffy poodles. My hair, naturally soft, turned into tiny springy coils, resembling an Afro. Instead of feeling beautiful, I was stuck with this look for months until my aunt finally had to cut my hair short.

Not long after, Xiaodie had another idea—she wanted to take me and Xiaolan to a photo studio. Since our families adored us as the youngest children, we easily secured funding for this venture.

While I had dreamed of curled hair, I wasn’t keen on having my picture taken. Xiaodie often said I wasn’t as pretty as another girl, Yaner, which made me believe I didn’t deserve to be in photos. After much persuasion and many promises, Xiaodie finally convinced me to go. I wore a white and pink-striped dress with little buttons on the shoulders—one my mother had brought from Shanghai. Xiaolan, not having such a fancy dress, wore a floral vest and had her hair tied into two braids, looking lively and cheerful.

At the studio, I hesitated again, regretting my decision. But my cousins were relentless, pushing Xiaolan and me in front of the camera. The photo captured Xiaolan’s radiant smile and my composed expression.

Later, my parents took me back home for school, and the Cultural Revolution began. Our family faced turmoil, and Mr. Jia was also affected. When I returned to my aunt’s house, the Jia family had already moved away.

Years later, while visiting my aunt for the New Year, my cousin asked, “Feihong, do you remember the Jia family?”

“Of course,” I said, “Xiaolan was my closest childhood friend.”

He told me he had recently run into their eldest daughter, Juanzi. During the Cultural Revolution, their family had been sent to the countryside. Since Mr. Jia wasn’t a technical worker, they stayed there for years. Juanzi had resisted an arranged marriage, but Xiaojing, only eighteen at the time, was forced to marry the brigade leader’s son. By the time their family returned to the city, Xiaojing had several children and was left behind in the village. Meanwhile, Xiaolan had managed to get into a technical school and was still studying.

Another unforgettable neighbor was the Su family, who lived in a blue-brick house across from my aunt’s. The Sus were former capitalists, and though much of their property was confiscated, they were allowed to keep part of their home.

The Su family had three sons. The youngest, Su San’er, was my age. He was a shy boy with a runny nose and a stutter, but he was kind and always protected Xiaolan and me from bullies.

However, the most striking member of the Su family was their eldest son, Su Dage. He had joined the army, making their family a “glorious military household.” In those days, having a soldier in the family was prestigious. I vividly remember Su Dage—tall, strong, and strikingly handsome. He was courting a beautiful, elegant woman at the time. Seeing them together was like witnessing a fairy tale, leaving a lasting impression on my young heart.

From childhood to adolescence, I wandered in and out of that courtyard, where neighbors were like family. Years later, when I returned to visit, my cousins told me the courtyard had been replaced by towering buildings. While they celebrated modern living, I silently mourned the loss of that warm, simple, and joyful era, now buried deep in my memories.

Grok的译文：

The Multitude of Lives in the Courtyard

Part of my childhood and adolescence was spent in my aunt’s courtyard in Shenyang. In the 1950s and 60s, Shenyang was dotted with many small bungalows, especially around the areas of Daxibianmen and Xiaoxibianmen. My aunt’s home was near the Tianguang Cinema of that time. From my house, I could take the clanging tram from the South Market and sway my way to her place.

My aunt lived in a row of modest red-brick bungalows, shared by several families. My uncle’s family lived in the backyard behind my aunt’s place. Their home was an old-style, three-room house made of green bricks with a tiled roof, complete with a small courtyard and bright, clean windows. It wasn’t until I grew older that I learned this house, along with others in the same compound, was ancestral property—left by my grandfather to his descendants. After the founding of New China, these properties were handed over to the state and became government assets.

The front yard facing my aunt’s house also featured an old-style, green-brick house with a small courtyard, similar to my uncle’s. As a child, I never understood why my aunt’s row of houses was smaller and simpler compared to the others. Looking back now, it suddenly dawns on me: the houses in front and behind my aunt’s were part of a large pre-revolutionary compound, built with generous spacing and careful craftsmanship. My aunt’s row, however, was a simple addition constructed by the government after 1949, squeezed between the two older rows.

This row of bungalows housed five or six families. Together with the two or three families in the green-brick house across the way, they formed a small community of eight or nine households—neighbors who saw each other constantly. The space between the bungalows and the green-brick house created a slightly wider passageway where the children could play.

Next door to my aunt lived the Hou family. Thinking back, the mother of this household was an incredibly meticulous and earnest woman. I don’t have much memory of the father, but the second of their three sons left a deep impression on me. This second son, roughly my age or perhaps a year younger, was the brightest of the three brothers and the pride of Mrs. Hou. Among the trio, he had the most refined features. He was livelier and more talkative than the honest, reserved eldest, yet more polite and less mischievous than the third, a little rascal. He was quite popular in the courtyard.

One summer, this second son somehow got his hands on an erhu (a two-stringed Chinese instrument). From then on, everyone in the neighborhood—including me—experienced the full force of his self-taught erhu playing. Have you ever heard someone play the erhu without any formal training? How can I describe that sound politely? It was like trembling strings quivering right at the tip of your heart. It gave you goosebumps night after night. For a while, whenever he played, even Mrs. Hou, who adored him, would walk around the courtyard with her head down, too embarrassed to meet anyone’s gaze. But this boy had real grit. He practiced every single day without fail. From summer to autumn, he kept at it for a good six months. And in the end, his persistence paid off—the erhu began to sound like actual music. Mrs. Hou started walking around the courtyard again, chest puffed out, a proud smile on her face. A couple of years ago, I noticed a student folk music band in the small Midwestern American town where I now live. Among them was a row of kids playing the erhu. I quietly let out a sigh of relief—phew, at least I’m not their neighbor.

Another family that left a strong impression in my aunt’s row was the Jia family. They had three sisters, the youngest of whom, Xiaolan, was my age and my best playmate. Back then, Mr. Jia, the father, seemed to be a minor official overseeing the service industry in the city. I remember my cousin Xiaodie often taking me to the public bathhouse. In those days, homes didn’t have bathrooms, so everyone went to bathhouses to wash. State-owned bathhouses were scarce, and no matter which one you went to or when, there were always long lines. But whenever Xiaodie mentioned Mr. Jia’s name, we’d skip the queue. It’s clear that pulling strings existed even before the Cultural Revolution—it was just small-scale, everyday stuff for ordinary folks back then.

In Xiaodie’s eyes, I must have been a little sister she could toy with at will. Whenever she got the chance, she’d come up with all sorts of bizarre ideas to mess with me. One time, she and the older Jia sisters decided to give Xiaolan and me perms. I remember my heart pounding wildly at the thought. In those days, getting a perm was a luxury. My mom had a photo where her hair was permed into a stunning style—she looked absolutely beautiful. I’d often sneak peeks at that picture, my mind drifting into endless daydreams.

A few days later, Mr. Jia borrowed some perming tools from his workplace. This was the 1960s—though they no longer used heated tongs, the equipment wasn’t much different. It was a big round contraption with lots of little clips dangling from it. Xiaodie and Xiaojing (the second Jia sister) rolled our hair into the clips, plugged in the device, and after a few dozen minutes, Xiaolan and I emerged with hair like curly poodle dogs. The worst part was my hair—naturally soft to begin with, it turned into tight, frizzy coils after the perm, almost like the hair you see on Black people today. Sigh. I’d hoped to look pretty, but it was a disaster. For half a year, those stubborn curls perched defiantly atop my head. Even after new hair grew out long enough, the curls clung to the ends, forcing my aunt to chop my hair short.

After playing with our hair, Xiaodie quieted down for a few days—only to come up with a new scheme: taking Xiaolan and me to a photo studio. As long as it involved dragging us along, my aunt and Mr. Jia would happily chip in some money. After all, Xiaolan and I were the youngest in our families, the little darlings everyone doted on.

I’d always dreamed of getting a perm, but photos? I wasn’t keen. Xiaodie often said I wasn’t as pretty as Yan’er, another girl, and in my young mind, I figured if I wasn’t pretty, I shouldn’t bother with pictures. So Xiaodie, to make up for her past comments, launched a relentless campaign to convince me. After a barrage of promises, she and the older sisters dressed Xiaolan and me up and dragged us to the studio.

I still remember wearing a white dress with pink diagonal stripes, made of bubble gauze, with a row of small white buttons on each shoulder. It was a gift from my mom, bought in Shanghai—simple yet elegant. Xiaolan didn’t have a dress that fancy, but she wore a floral jacket, and Xiaojing braided her hair into two little pigtails, giving her a lively, cheerful look. At the studio, I started having second thoughts and didn’t want to pose. The sisters panicked, coaxing and prodding until they finally shoved Xiaolan and me in front of the camera. The photographer snapped the shot, capturing Xiaolan’s bright, innocent smile and my quiet, reluctant face.

Later, my parents took me back home to start school, and the Cultural Revolution began. For a few years, everything was chaotic. Xiaolan’s father was targeted, and when I visited my aunt’s again, Xiaolan was gone—her family had moved away.

Years later, I was in college and went to my aunt’s for the Spring Festival. Out of the blue, my cousin asked, “Feihong, do you still remember the Jia family?” I replied, “Xiaolan was my childhood best friend—how could I forget?” He said he’d recently run into Juanzi, the eldest Jia sister, on the street and chatted for a while. Juanzi told him their family had been sent to the countryside during the Cultural Revolution under the “May 7th” directive. Since Mr. Jia wasn’t a technical cadre, they stayed there for years, only recently returning to the city. She said Mr. Jia had been paranoid in the countryside, fearing the locals would bully them. Not long after arriving, he forced Juanzi, then 20, to marry the team leader’s son. Juanzi stood her ground and refused. So he pressured Xiaojing, who was only 18, and she reluctantly obeyed. Now Xiaojing had several kids and was left behind in the village, teary-eyed, when the family returned to the city. As for Xiaolan, she’d gotten into a technical school and was studying.

Another family that left a deep mark on me in this courtyard was the Su family, who lived in the green-brick house across from my aunt’s. Besides having their own little yard, their home was spacious. The Su family had been capitalists before 1949, and the house originally belonged to them. After the founding of New China, the government let them keep part of it, redistributing the rest to others.

Their front door faced my aunt’s, separated by about ten meters. My cousin told me Mr. Su had been a factory owner before the revolution. After 1949, his factory was merged into a public-private partnership, but he retained a decent position and income. Every evening, Mr. Su would have a couple of drinks, his face always flushed when I saw him. He was a warm, easygoing man. Mrs. Su was a housewife with a gentle temper, fond of hanging out with us kids.

Their youngest son, Su San’er (Third Brother Su), was the same age as Xiaolan and me, though a few months older. The adults in the courtyard called him Su San’er, while Xiaolan and I called him “Brother Su San.” As a kid, he often had a runny nose and a slight stutter, but he was kindhearted and always let Xiaolan and me have our way when we played. If kids from outside the courtyard bullied us, he’d step up and defend us.

But the one who truly stood out in the Su family wasn’t Su San’er—it was his eldest brother, known as Big Brother Su. He was at least a decade older than Su San’er. By the time we were still muddled little kids, he’d already joined the People’s Liberation Army, making the Su family a proud military household. Anyone who remembers those days knows how prestigious it was to have a soldier in the family—everyone basked in the glory. If I had to describe it, the phrase that pops into my mind is, “When one person attains the Way, even the chickens and dogs ascend to heaven.”

My real memory of Big Brother Su began in my teenage years. The first time I saw him, a few dazzling words flashed in my mind: heroic and striking. I’d never seen such a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick brows, big eyes, and a rugged, handsome air. At the time, he was courting his future wife, and when I first saw her, I was stunned. Could there really be such a beautiful woman in the world—graceful, refined, serene? Standing together, they were a match made in heaven, leaving my teenage heart quietly marveling and envious for a long, long time.

From childhood to adolescence, I came and went in this courtyard. Every family here was both a neighbor and kin—we lived our days together. Years ago, when I returned to China to visit relatives, my cousins dropped by. We reminisced about the old days and that courtyard. They told me it no longer exists—replaced by a sprawl of high-rise buildings. Their words carried the joy of living in modern towers. But in my heart, I could only sigh. Childhood—those warm, innocent, joyful years—has truly become a memory buried forever deep within me.