by Sarina Feng, Carmel Valley Middle School

9th century, Hunan Province.  

ninth moon, ninth year.. 

ninety-nine years of age

A woman’s life of nines

When I had experienced my ninth full moon

They swept my eldest sister away

In rivulets of crimson- wedding robes,

A flow of imperceptible blood, gushing 

From the invisible gashes on her heart.

When I had experienced my ninth new year

They marched my second sister

To the village of Bright Hopes

Where the depravity of despair

Tore apart her luminescent dreams. 

Gathering, in the ninth month of the year. Silent tears flowed across the natal dinner table. Tongues bound tight by women’s duty. Eyes whispered over and over: can you hear me, can you hear me? 

I could not. 

Nine years elapsed, I too was

Doused in scarlet silk- 

Drowned in an ocean of ichor

Dragged away by filiality and tradition,

The prevalence of society.

Forced into a palanquin,

Uttering not a sound

On my journey to the village of Vivid Life

Where fauna dared to blossom

And warblers dared to serenade.

Unlike my older sisters

Greeted by a gentle spouse, 

A congenial family

I birthed, I devoted, I blossomed.

Midnight, silence reigned. Ascending the highest rooftops, I looked for my sisters’ abodes. The flickering candlelight in their windows spoke to me: can you hear me, can you hear me?

I could not. 

I brought my husband tea at nine in the evening,

Preparing his ink in the inkstone. 

His fingers wrapped around a calligraphy brush,

Wrist poised in a perfect arch.

The brush danced over the paper in graceful motions,

Leaving swaying characters in its wake.

Unable to read,

Was it a poem for me?

That night, I dreamed of swirling calligraphy,

Of beautiful shapes twirling down a page,

Of more than candlelight flickering in a window.

I created a plethora of symbols- ninety-nine of them- before the next gathering. We- trio of daughters- snuck into the woods, bare feet swishing through the luscious overgrown grass. I showed my sisters the beautiful shapes that dance down a page: nushu, the secret women’s writing I had created. Their eyes whispered once more, can you hear me, can you hear me?

No. I will soon.

My maid brought the first batch of letters, 

Nine from each of my sisters.

Years of tacit sorrows

Tumbled bitterly off the pages

Like a caged bird’s melody.

But I heard.

In the flickering candlelight 

Of my sisters’ windows,

Our language budded and bloomed

Hidden in plain sight,

Guarded by society’s indifference.

Nine, number of longevity, everlasting eternity. Nine hundred ninety-nine letters exchanged in our language, concealed from the minds of men. It spread beyond my village, across the counties, shared by anguished wives, forlorn daughters, separated friends. Now, I lay on my deathbed, ninety nine years of age, tracing each stroke of the characters I birthed. As I take one last shuddering breath, they drift into the night air like fireflies, ready to serve another woman in her life of nines.