How a Conversation with a Chinese Medicine Lady about Motherhood, Sacrifice, and Hope Inspired "Sparrow Bones"

Author Notes for "Sparrow Bones"

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“Author Notes” is a paid series highlighting the specific moments from my travels that inspired the fiction featured in this newsletter. In it, I also explain some of the writing techniques used to bring the stories to life. 

If you read Sparrow Bones (click here to check it out) and you’re interested in learning about the context surrounding the story’s creation, this article is for you.  

The first 25% of the article is free. To find out what happens after that, you can sign up for a 7-day free trial to keep reading at no extra cost. 

Enjoy!

Part I: Birth of an Idea 

“Stop teasing,” the Medicine Lady huffed. “You know I’m not that young.” 

She shuffled from the inner hallway to the foyer where Ye Ye (my paternal grandfather) and I were waiting. She clutched a tin bowl of herbal medicine that had been ground into ash in one hand. Her other hand supported a small pitcher of inky black liquid. 

She hooked her ankle around a wooden stool and pulled it out from beneath a table laden with everyday paraphernalia: bottles of cheap liquor, a bag of beans, a dented pot with chipped handles, and a single rose wilting inside a single-use water bottle. Two enormous stone jars with Chinese characters inscribed across their bellies collected dust to the right of the hallway. 

On their left stood a dresser with a ceramic bodhisattva deep in thought. Threads of smoke rose from the incense before her, drawing delicate, swooping patterns through the air: a tigris leaping from a tree, a child flying a kite, and a dragon searching for a home. 

I inhaled their smoky sweetness and let my shoulders relax. 

“You’re eighty, you say?” The Medicine Lady tilted her chin at Ye Ye. “I’m ten years your junior. I remember seeing you making deliveries to the wine factory back in the day. You had it good, working as a tailor. Might have even asked you to mend a coat for me once or twice. Remember that?” 

Ye Ye replied, “'Tis so long ago now, but I think I might’ve.”

“And how about you?” She asked, turning to me. “You’re twenty-something?”

I nodded. “Twenty-two.”

“Still young,” she said. Then, in a wistful voice, she repeated, “I remember being your age. The hunger. The fear of not putting food on the table. But we always got by. It was a different age” 

I observed her from the tail of my eye. Strands of dyed, ebony hair framed a pair of beady eyes creased with age and thought. Though her manners were as rough as the brick facade of her house, I sensed tenderness beneath the crackle of her voice. She hummed softly as she poured the liquid into the bowl and gave me a toothy grin when she caught me staring. 

The air sweltered like the inside of a pressure cooker boiling over leaping flames. I looked down at my palms, already gleaming with a fresh coat of sweat, though I’d wiped them on my dress hardly a minute ago. Defeated, I wiped them again and lowered myself onto a rickety bench beside Ye Ye. 

It was mid-June in Jiangsu province, China, a few days before Duanwu Jie (Dragon Boat Festival). I’d been visiting relatives on my dad’s side for two weeks while exploring his hometown. 

Having been struck with shingles a few days ago, Ye Ye decided to visit the Medicine Lady at my aunt’s insistence. I’d agreed to accompany him one, to lend him a hand in case he needed it, and two, because I wanted to see what this Medicine Lady would do. 

“Roll down your pants,” she instructed. 

Ye Ye unbuckled his belt and did as he was told, revealing a large swath of afflicted flesh. She scooted her stool closer, dipped her fingers in the herbal medicine, and smeared the concoction over his thigh. I leaned closer as she picked up a needle and gingerly traced each blister with the tip. 

“Did you learn this from someone or did you teach yourself?” I asked, trying to mask my skepticism with a curious tone. 

All I knew about traditional Chinese medicine was it usually involved mixing bitter herbs and balancing your Qi—something like that. My grandparents knew far more but having grown up on the other side of the Pacific, I never got to learn from them. 

The Medicine Lady gave me another toothy grin. “I was married before I was your age. He was a good man. Worked hard in the fields. We had two kids—a boy and a girl. Then, he passed, and the three of us were on our own.” 

She put down the needle and wiped her fingers on a tattered towel. Her smile widened, but the sorrow in her eyes deepened. 

“I remember carrying them, one in each arm, and walking towards the field at dawn. This was right after the Cultural Revolution. You know about that, yes? They were so young, just two and three. They’d whimper. Sometimes cry. I could never give them enough to eat. There’s nothing worse for a mother than to see your children in pain and not being able to do anything about it.” 

If we’d been speaking in English, I’d have said, “I’m sorry to hear that,” but there’s no equivalent of that phrase in Chinese. At least not to my knowledge. Instead, I nodded and gave her a small smile to show I was listening. Ye Ye shifted in his seat and waited for her to go on. 

“So, what happened?” I asked. 

Besides the two stone jars stood a wide bowl brimming with freshly steamed Zong Zi— sticky rice dumplings wrapped in aromatic bamboo leaves. Every household in my dad’s village would have been busy making them in anticipation of Duanwu Jie. The Medicine Lady eyed them for a moment before handing me one.

“Try it, child. We use dates and nuts in ours.”

She waited for me to unwrap it and take my first bite before continuing.