As I sat with my wife on the stone bench in front of my childhood home in the village of Aawu (鴉湖村), an elderly lady walked by us and without pausing asked if I was the boy from that house who left nearly fifty years ago. She finally stopped fifteen metres away below the arch at the front of the laneway to rest by the entryway shrine. I followed her there and confirmed that I am indeed that boy and we quickly slipped into conversation in our Aawu dialect (countryside Cantonese), which instantly gave us a connection. I explained the reason for my return to the village. I had never visited my grandfather’s grave. Nor had I fulfilled another Cantonese obligation: Introducing my wife to him. With the extra fear of the village disappearing due to rapid urbanisation, I had finally returned to Maaubou (茅㘵, a neighbourhood within Aawu) to fulfil my duties. As we spoke, an elderly gentleman walked by and he too without stopping remarked as he strode past us, “I remember Kai. He would always say ‘tomorrow’ whenever we asked him when he would be moving to Canada.” The lady laughed and confirmed the story. Over the…
