I remember the day of your wedding. Pear blossoms paved the way from your bedroom to the village gate. The red of your wedding gown was the only symbol of happiness in a time when the entire village barely survived the famine.
The groom didn’t come with any pig nor buffalo as dowry. You were married out to reduce a mouth need feeding.
The rusty tractor took the newlyweds away disappearing deeper into the mountains and left a trail of mud from the spring rain wrestling with the firecrackers. The elders said your marriage started of a rough path already.