last moment i thought i was an asshole

我上一个觉得自己是混蛋的瞬间，是刚刚我在微信联系人中翻到了我已经过世的爷爷的账号。我爸在他下葬的那天把他的手机一起扔进墓盒里去了，我不知道腾讯还会把他的账号保存多

久。我爷爷的微信头像是我小时候的一张照片。我那时大概是一两岁，头发剪得和小男孩一样，手里甚至握着一把假枪。仔细看我才发现我小时候眼睛还是滴溜圆的，肥肥的脸蛋和现在一样是我减肥中永远的痛。

这张照片一直挂在我爷爷的爸爸也就是我老爷爷屋子里那堵被油烟熏得焦黄的墙上。数十年如一日在同一个钉子上挂着，连玻璃和相框上都覆盖着厚厚的污泥。我猜我爷爷那时一定是把照片从那脏污的墙上取下来了，拿毛巾擦干净了，剥开那层玻璃然后把照片取出来，又对着他智能手机的镜头拍了一张。

我当时回老家，他坐在烟雾缭绕的破凳子上，在炉子后面，笑着他整张漆黑发皱的脸和我说：你看我微信头像了没？还是你小时候的照片呢。

我不记得我当时是怎么回复的了，但是我一定只是讪讪地笑了一下，然后说我当然看到了。但互动早就沉默得在我记忆中没有一点底色。

The last time I felt like a total asshole was just moments ago when I stumbled upon my late grandad’s WeChat account while scrolling through my contacts. My dad buried his phone with him in the casket on the day of the funeral; I have no idea how much longer Tencent will keep his account active.

My grandad's profile picture is a photo of me as a child. I was probably only one or two years old, with my hair short like a little boy’s, clutching a toy gun in my hand. Looking closely, I realised my eyes were perfectly round back then, and the same chubby face—just like now—was the forever pain of my weight-loss attempts.

That photo had always hung on the smoke-stained, yellowed wall of my great-grandad’s room. It had stayed on the exact same nail for decades, until the glass and the frame were coated in a thick layer of grime. He must have taken it down from that filthy wall, wiped it clean with a towel, pried open the glass to get the print, and then carefully captured it through his camera.

I remember visiting the old house; he was sitting on a worn-out stool shrouded in cigarette smoke, tucked behind the stove. With a smile that creased his dark, weathered face, he asked: “Have you seen my profile picture? It’s still that photo of you when you were little.”

I don’t remember how I responded. I’m pretty sure I just gave a sheepish smile and muttered, “Yeah, of course I saw it.” But that interaction has long since faded into a silence so profound it leaves no trace in my memory.

我爷爷的微信简介是：大海眼XXX西门超市（xxx是他的名字）。我甚至都不知道原来他还给他这个小卖部起过名字——因为从我记事开始那四个贴在门顶玻璃上的用黄色油纸剪出来的招牌名字，早就被风雨剥削的不成样子了。

His bio reads: Dahaiyan (the name of the village) xxx west gate groceries (xxx is his name). I didn't even know he had actually given his little shop a proper name, because for as long as I can remember, those four characters on the glass above the door, hand-cut from yellow greaseproof paper, had long since been stripped and weathered by the wind and rain.

他的朋友圈是他骑摩托和我奶奶在临近村镇到处玩的照片，配上他独到的冷幽默点评。那辆摩托车曾经也载过我爸，后来又载过我，后来我长大了，他腿脚不好，爸爸买了车，这辆摩托就再也没人骑了。直到我离开家了，爸爸也不回家了，他拿着我们给他买的智能手机，把这破摩托擦干净，又带上他的爱人出门玩了。

His moments were full of pictures of him and my grandma travelling around nearby towns on his old motorbike, with his signature deadpan comments. That bike once carried my dad. Then it carried me. Then I grew up, his legs started to fail, and my dad bought a car, and nobody touched the bike again. It stayed that way until I left home, and my dad stopped coming back. My grandad took the smartphone we bought him. He wiped the beat-up bike clean. He took the love of his life, and they went out to play again.

我爷爷的第一条朋友圈是一张张家界的照片和一张川西牦牛的照片。他这辈子都没离开过我们那个区，这些照片当然是他学会上网之后自己下载下来精装修朋友圈的。他很自豪地说过：我发了这两张照片，人家都以为是我去过。但是我知道他年轻时开了很久大车，路过过四川和湖南的边缘，但从来没有机会上山去看过。

The very first Moment he posted was a picture of Zhangjiajie and a photo of yaks in Western Sichuan. However, he has never left that little village. Of course, he downloaded these pictures online to decorate his Moments after he learned how to use the internet. He once proudly said, "I posted them so people would believe I've been there!" But I know that when he was young, he drove trucks for a long time and passed by the edges of Sichuan and Hunan, but never had the chance to go up the mountains to see them.

剩余的照片就是他在老家房子犄角旮旯里种下的喇叭花，还有门口的葡萄架子，在春夏结硕果。还有一张我奶奶从一颗分叉的老树的树洞里探出身子的照片。这些都是他的照片。他年轻时拍胶卷，自己搭暗房洗照片，可以把36张的卷拍出38张。他有个老相机——我们家也只有这一个老相机，他传给我爸，我爸又把他的老尼康传给我。

The rest of his photos were of the morning glories in the corners of the old house. There was a grape trellis by the door. It bore fruit in the summer. One photo showed my grandmother leaning out from the hollow of an old tree.

These were his own photos. When he was young, he shot film. He built a darkroom and developed the prints himself; he could get thirty-eight shots out of a thirty-six roll.

He bought the very first camera for the house, and that was the only one we had. He gave it to my father, just as my father gave his old Nikon to me.

这些事都是我爸在我爷爷的坟前和我说的。春节回家给他烧纸，我和我爸坐在坟前等着香烧完。他掏出一包泰山给我爷爷点上两根；我掏出我的amber leaf给他卷上一根。我自己也卷上一根，点上，和我爸说：让我爷爷尝尝英国烟草的味儿！

后来那两根泰山烧得太快，而我的卷烟灭了。我爸说烟要是灭了代表他不爱抽。我笑笑。我爸说我爷爷爱抽泰山这类烟，我说他不是爱抽哈德门吗？最便宜的那种软盒？我爸说不是，他开小卖部卖烟，自己抽了五十年烟，可从来不舍得给自己点根好的。然后他又掏出了三根泰山，在自己嘴里一口气全点了，然后又放到他跟前。

My dad told me these things at the grave. We went back for the Spring Festival to burn paper offerings. We sat there and waited for the incense to burn out. My dad took out a pack of Taishan cigarettes. He thrust two cigarettes into his mouth, lit them, and placed them at the grave. I took out my Amber Leaf and rolled one for the old man, the way I had rolled them for myself a thousand times. I rolled one again for myself and lit it, saying, "Let him taste some English tobacco!"

The two Taishans burned fast. My roll-up went out. My dad said if the cigarette goes out, it means he does not like it. I laughed. My dad said my grandad liked Taishans. "I thought he preferred Hatamen, the cheap soft packs," I said. My dad said no. He had run a small shop and sold cigarettes for fifty years, but he never treated himself to the good ones. Then my dad took out three more Taishans, thrust them all at once into his own mouth again, lit them, and placed them before the grave.

我爷爷去世之后我没怎么哭过。我觉得这是源自我对他的信任，已经超越生命。可是今天我上着班正摸鱼呢，瞥见他的头像，和那寥寥无几的聊天记录，我很不争气地哭了。

I did not cry much after he died. I believe that's because I trusted him in a way that went beyond life. But today I was at work, wasting time, when I saw his profile picture. I looked at the few messages we had shared, then I started to cry, and I could not help it.

逝去的爱就是在这样的时刻偷袭你。

Lost love ambushes you in moments like these.