In some ways, Li’s memoir is a radical rebuke of the conventions surrounding grieving. Early on, she warns those who expect a narrative of healing or solace to stop reading: This is not a story about overcoming loss or moving on.
“I don’t ever want to be free from the pain of missing my children,” Li told me when we met on a sunny day in April at her home near the university, where she teaches creative writing. “This pain is in my life for ever and ever, and I don’t want to do anything to mitigate the pain, because to mitigate it means that’s something bad, it’s an illness or affliction.”
Li was at home with her husband, a software engineer, and their dog Quintus, a white cockapoo with cloudy cataract-filled eyes, who bounded into the living room, still exuberant at 13. Quintus joined the family when the boys were 7 and 10; Vincent chose his name, Latin for “fifth,” because he was the fifth family member.
Li made me a cup of green tea and led me to the sunny sitting room off her garden, where she spends endless hours tending to plants and flowers. She had just planted some Japanese anemones that wouldn’t bloom until the fall, and the yard teemed with vibrant daffodils, hyacinths and tulips. With a hint of pride, Li said she had planted 1,600 bulbs and was pleased that around half of them had sprouted. She fretted about the fate of hatchlings in a wren’s nest nestled low in a rose bush. “You just worry about those little birds,” she said.
Li, who was born in Beijing in 1972, has a round, youthful face and speaks softly and deliberately. Though she comes across as serious and cerebral at first, she frequently broke into smiles and laughter. She joked about what a bad swimmer and mediocre piano player she is, and gently mocked people she calls “silver liners,” well meaning acquaintances and strangers who have tried to assure her there’s life beyond grief.
