My mother fenced off a piece of land and raised more than ten chickens.
My father set up a bamboo chair at the eaves of the house, where he would sit and contemplate every evening. Occasionally, he would smoke the grass he grew himself.
That bamboo chair was once sat on by my grandfather, who passed away many years ago.
In autumn, a slight chill brushes by, and you can hear the birds calling from the opposite mountain, and the gurgling stream.
The nights have a hint of Zen, and I sleep deeply without waking up.