The Unlit Rabbit Lantern on the Balcony: My Connection to Zigong

On the balcony of my rented apartment, there's always an old rabbit lantern hanging, with one ear drooping, precariously held together by transparent tape. Every time my landlady sees it, she wants to throw it away: "Xiao Chen, this broken lantern doesn't even light up, it's just taking up space!" I always grin and block her, "Auntie, this is a 'house-protecting lantern' from my hometown in Zigong, can't throw it away!"

Actually, it hasn't lit up for many years.

I. Lanterns are Zigong's Air

Growing up in Zigong, lanterns weren't some rare festive decoration. They were like the aroma of that bowl of douhua rice in the morning on the street, like the slightly fishy wind from the Fuxi River in the evening; they were the most ordinary yet indispensable backdrop to life.

When I was a child, during Chinese New Year, the most "painful" yet anticipated thing was being taken to the Lantern Park by my parents. People were packed chest to back, and my dad insisted on letting me ride on his neck to see. Once, I really couldn't hold it in... well, his new woolen hat suffered. He glared angrily: "What's there to see in these lanterns?!" But the next year, that damp "throne" was still mine.

Zigong people's persistence with lanterns is sometimes really beyond explanation. I remember one year there was a big flood, and half the alley was submerged, even Uncle Zhang's refrigerator was floating. Auntie Zhang anxiously patted him: "I told you to move that new set of lotus lanterns from the balcony first! But you insisted on moving this broken TV!"

II. Livelihood and Life Under the Lantern Glow

I have a distant second uncle who spent his whole life making lanterns. His home always carried the smell of freshly cut bamboo splints, and his fingers were perpetually marked with tiny cuts and hangnails. Once, he told me about a big order years ago for Shenzhen, where the client suddenly changed their mind and demanded everything be redone. He and his apprentices worked around the clock for three days and nights, until their eyes were bloodshot. On the day he got paid after delivering the goods, he hid in his hotel bathroom to call home. His voice trembled a little as he said, "Hey, old lady, buy the boy a proper pair of leather sneakers! Make sure they’re genuine leather!

This lantern trade sustains many people, but it's also demanding. I remember when my cousin was on a blind date, as soon as the other person heard her family "made lanterns," the matchmaker turned to the introducer and whispered: "Oh, they're seasonal workers, unstable."

There's no magical lantern miracle; behind it are blood blisters from bamboo strips and sweat soaked into silk fabric.

III. A Patch That Traveled to Paris

A few years ago, I heard that a lantern group my second uncle helped make went to an exhibition in Paris. The family group chat exploded, frantically sharing videos: below the Eiffel Tower, a crowd of people gathered around a magnificent Qilin lantern, taking photos. My second aunt, holding her reading glasses, almost poked through the phone screen, then suddenly shouted: "Old man! Look! Is that the patch you put on the Qilin's tail back then?!"

The video was magnified again and again, and indeed, near the base of the Qilin's tail, there was a silk patch, extremely close in color but with a slightly different texture upon closer inspection —it was from when the factory's large yellow dog caused trouble and chewed it, and my second uncle couldn't bear to scrap the whole lantern, so he secretly found material to fix it himself.

The most humble mending skill, thus, shimmered at the foot of the most fashionable tower.

IV. New Lights, Old Shadows, Light Always Finds a Way
Today's Zigong Lantern Festival is getting more and more dazzling. Mechanical dinosaurs shake their heads and tails, their eyes even glowing; huge projection lights draw the entire story of "Shan Hai Jing" vividly on the walls. Last year, I took a friend's child to see it, and the little one stared at a voice-controlled lotus lantern, clapping and jumping: "Uncle! Look! It really blooms!"

(from:https://www.paintinglantern.com/)

On the way home, the child suddenly looked up and asked me: "Uncle, why doesn't your rabbit lantern on the balcony bloom?"

I was momentarily stumped.

Until one day, I saw that child holding my phone, turning on the flashlight function, and shining it onto that old rabbit lantern on the balcony. The light passed through its tape-wrapped broken ear, casting a huge and wondrous rabbit shadow on the white living room wall, with ears that seemed to pierce the ceiling. He excitedly shouted: "Uncle, look! The rabbit's ears flew into the sky!"

It turns out that light itself knows how to tell stories, how to find new paths.

V. What Never Dies is Not the Light Bulb

This year's Lantern Festival, I made plans with friends to visit the newly opened "Lantern World". Amidst the sea of people, my friend's child suddenly pointed to the sky and exclaimed: "Moon!"
A thin crescent moon floated above the sprawling, colorful artificial sea of lights, so faint it was almost invisible.

Just like my dad's woolen hat that I wet back then , like the inconspicuous silk patch my second uncle mended onto the Qilin lantern's tail , like this broken-eared rabbit lantern on my balcony that will never light up again but I stubbornly refuse to throw away... These slightly embarrassing, somewhat awkward, and even somewhat worn marks are precisely the clearest in memory, shining the longest.

As we neared the exit, I heard a little girl crying nearby: "Mom! My star lantern isn't lighting up!"

Her mother picked her up and coaxed: "Good girl, the battery's dead. Mom will get you a new one when we get home."

The little girl sniffled and asked: "If we change to a new battery... will it still be the light from the original star?"

The crowd pushed us forward, and I didn't hear the mother's answer.
Approaching the gate, the kid next door tugged my sleeve and said, “Uncle, go home and change the batteries in your balcony’s rabbit lantern! Let it shine bright again!”

I ruffled his hair with a chuckle: “What batteries? Its belly is empty, and the wires are all worn out—couldn’t even fit one in!”

The little one’s eyes lit up, then he suddenly got excited: “Why don’t we put a candle in it?!”

The streetlights stretched our shadows long.

In Zigong's night air, there seemed to be a faint, familiar fragrance of bamboo strips.
Postscript: Later one day, I really did find half a birthday candle, lit it carefully, and put it into the empty belly of the rabbit lantern. The faint flame flickered for about... three minutes? A few drops of wax dripped onto the balcony tiles, and after my landlady discovered them, she nagged me for three whole days. The rabbit lantern? It's still hanging there. Whether it lights up or not has long ceased to be important.

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