Time is the slowest poison

Late last year, soon after I returned to China, my childhood friend Tiantian invited me to dinner. Six years had passed since we last met. I almost postponed because something came up, but decided to go. Tiantian told me that she would have her wedding in half a year and invited me. I said yes.

Tiantian, Lao Tan, and I grew up together. We attended the same kindergarten, primary school, and middle school. We lived close by, played together constantly, and our families were close too.

My grandmother was a Chinese teacher and often made us write essays on weekends. Afterwards, we would go to Lao Tan’s home to play on the computer. We often played RollerCoaster Tycoon, while his parents fried snacks for us. I especially loved the tenderloin they made. Tiantian’s parents were, as I recall, doctors; her father was funny too, and his jokes would make us laugh.

Those primary-school years were among the happiest in my memory. My grandfather was still healthy and things at home were good. We went to school every day, played together on weekends, and it felt as though life could continue that way forever.

We made it through primary school, then were placed in different classes in middle school and saw each other less. In high school, even less. Lao Tan and Tiantian did well academically and went to Suzhou’s best high school, while I did not do well and eventually went to Suzhou No. 10 High School.

After high school, Lao Tan and I left Suzhou while Tiantian stayed at Soochow University. We rarely met after that and barely even messaged each other. I once thought parting was frightening; in truth, the real separations happen without anyone noticing.

Someone once said that choosing a city is choosing a way of life. We each moved forward along our own paths, and those paths had few intersections with old friends.

In 2019, I returned to China and met Lao Tan and Tiantian. We exchanged ordinary updates. I was probably still in my third year of university, while they were preparing to study in the United States. Then came the pandemic, and another five years passed before I noticed. Lao Tan stayed in the U.S. as a backend engineer at a major tech company, Tiantian worked in fundraising and investment in Shanghai, and I eventually found my way back to Suzhou.

At the wedding, Tiantian raised her glass and said that only an occasion like this could bring everyone together. Lao Tan could not come back from work in the United States, but he sent a video with his blessings.

To my surprise, I saw Lao Tan’s parents again, and Tiantian’s as well. They looked almost exactly as I remembered. Uncle Tan warmly greeted me, took a photo with me, and added me on WeChat. He said he had almost not recognized me. I said he had hardly changed at all. We talked for a long time—about childhood, the pandemic, and the present. He said the domestic environment was difficult and suggested I consider opportunities elsewhere. I told him I still missed the fried tenderloin. He laughed and said he had loved frying food for our group of children.

At the ceremony, Tiantian and her groom stood side by side as the host gave blessings and everyone rose to applaud. I did too. More than twenty years had passed since we first met. My grandfather had become bedridden ten years earlier; our old house had long been vacant, gathering dust and clutter. As my family gradually declined, I spoke less to others and expressed my feelings less often. Yet in that crowded wedding hall, I felt my nose sting with tears.

They came from the distant gaze of a child, traveling through twenty dust-covered years.

I raised my glass—to Tiantian, to Lao Tan, to myself, and to time.

June 10, 2024, in Suzhou