Weng’s parents had lived through the Cultural Revolution.

Their parents through the massacres of World War II,
then civil war.

So much had taken place in the hutong district
where they lived.

But still, clothes of all sizes hung on frayed lines

between light poles and awnings, from morning until dusk.

In summer, when it was too hot, people would carry small seats,

ma zha, outside. Fan their children to slumber.

Sometimes Weng went out to buy tea or a single cigarette,

or just walk,

or sit quietly on a plastic chair,

reading the newspaper.