The acacia flowers at the bridge head are blooming.
This should have been written in June. When I remembered it again, I had just finished a trip. I was lying on the bed in a daze, and heard the weather broadcast on the TV in the living room: “Today is July 12, Sunday, in some parts of Shandong…” There were intermittent cicadas outside the window, as if in In the near distance, it seems to be in the distance, elusive.
“The sound of cicadas chirping, I suddenly feel that summer is long”, in this summer afternoon that can’t grow any longer, I seem to have taken a long nap, turned over and suddenly smelled a familiar smell, It seems that he is standing in the small courtyard built by the brick walls of the grandmother’s house again. The roses in the southwest corner are in full bloom, and the leaves are still green in midsummer; my grandmother is standing in the yard with a cane, smiling as my younger siblings play the house; large pieces of cut bamboo are placed on the open-air bamboo bed in front of the house. Watermelon; the sound of “squeak” came from the house, and the old fan was whirling; I walked through the clothesline and heard the cicadas in the distance…
Struggling Sitting up, there was an unreal blue sky outside the window, a bicycle sped past under the lush greenery, and the valve of memory was caught off guard. It was as if I saw my seventeen or eighteen-year-old riding a bicycle jingle bell on the road surrounded by trees. At that time, there was no mobile phone and no internet. I always felt that the summer was very long, and there was a lot of time to squander. The rebelliousness of adolescence was slowly growing and spreading, and unintentional words could touch my sensitive nerves. And grandma is undoubtedly the best vent.
I can remember the most pictures about summer: rushing out of the door after the nameless fire, riding a bicycle with friends on the road that can’t see the end. The sunset at 6 or 7 o’clock, the shadows of the trees passing by fast on both sides of the road, the messy broken hair in front of the forehead, and the clothes soaked in sweat, I really thought that I had found the true meaning of youth. At that time, I didn’t think about it at all: during the long period of time when I turned my head and walked out of the house, how my grandmother was restless and how she comforted herself over and over again. She must have sensed the danger I might encounter from the gossip of others. She quietly hid behind a tree on my only way home, stretched her neck and stood on tiptoe to look back and forth until she found my trail. , the nervous look on his face gradually dissipated, and then he slowly walked home with a cane. Leaving a long shadow behind her, like this long and lonely day.
Memories flooded my mind. I remember one time, when we were going to eat, I insisted on crossing a narrow railway in order to avoid walking. We learned from the surrounding conversations that a train was about to pass, and we waited quietly beside the railway. The sound of the whistle gradually drove me to turn my head to look in the direction of the train, followed by a strong light that penetrated the darkness, the train was accompanied by a huge roar, and I stepped back in fear. Suddenly, the world It became silent, the clamorous noise was isolated from her palm, and only the silenced train was left in front of her eyes.
“It’s time to go back and have a look,” I said to myself inwardly.
Revisiting the old place and embarking on that long road again. Pushing open the door, the moss on the wall skirt in the corridor is green, the acacia tree in the yard is in full bloom, and the clothesline is swaying back and forth in the wind in the hall. When the old boy returned, the light and shadow flowed, and everything seemed to have not changed. Everything seems to have changed again. On both sides of the road are no longer the thick trees that can hide people’s bodies in memory; the friends who rode bicycles by your side in those years have gone their separate ways; The summer that put me to sleep is gone forever…
Everything seems to be like this. On the one-way street of life, the long road is long but there are exits everywhere, and the people who go with you silently say goodbye to you . Suddenly, on this summer night when the cicadas were silent, I understood what Xu Zhimo wrote in “Farewell to Cambridge”, “But I can’t sing, quietly is the flute of parting; Xia Zong is also silent for me, and the silence is tonight. Cambridge”. When I was young, I didn’t understand Xu Zhimo, but when I remembered it at this time, I actually had a relationship with me.
The moonlight poured down like a satin, I sat on the threshold with my chin up, watching the moonlight all over the ground, flowing into my longing heart.
Style: Prose
Author: Wang Yanan, currently a Chinese teacher in Yangxin County Experimental Middle School, Shandong Province
One Point, a star in the deep sea