“It is the heat,” said I, knowing that mother would not like to think she was no longer strong as she used to be.
“Probably, I’ve rested enough. Shall we go?”
The sound of silence fell. The noise of people rose. After another hour’s walking, off and on, we at last reached the top.
Right in the central square, Deng Xiaoping’s statue stood high above the ground and far behind a fence. This position seemed to give an impression that Deng was highly protected and therefore unreachable. The colorfully painted fence was crawling with tourists of all ages. They looked all excited and happy, facing or half facing the statue, making various poses, having their pictures taken or more using selfi e sticks to take themselves with their beloved Comrade Deng. With or without sunglasses, their faces appeared childish between the mobile camera and the immobile sculpture. They seldom took a real look at the lofty fi gure of Chairman Deng. None gazed at his typically loving smile, his widely stretched hand, his widely proud pace and his dashing head that held a blue sky. It was a rich spirit of Deng in the way people remembered and respected; or perhaps it was the sculptor himself, who captured or wanted to capture the utmost richness of Deng’s spirit.