Text: Yang Junping
Pictures: Source Network
Childhood, in flashes and contemplation, becomes more and more clear and bright; in my hometown, I am experiencing loneliness and Looking back and drifting away. The road home was winding and turning, and my thoughts overflowed on the winding road. The strands were crushed by the flying wheels, stretched, and finally became blurred. Open the car window, the passionate rain kisses the cheek gently, and the hot tears drip down the land of my hometown, follow the ditch, and hug each other in the river and weep.
The paper boats folded in childhood floated gently in the river, floating, floating, and disappeared in a deep pool. At this moment, I realized that my childhood had sunk and needed to be slowly salvaged in the long river of life. A few ducks floated in the river, and their nimble toes made their hometown clear. It was so clear that you could see small fish among the rocks on the bottom of the water and water insects on the sand. My friends and I walked barefoot on the river beach. The round stones were smooth and the sharp gravel stepped on our feet. We felt the most primitive foot massage. Pick up a small piece of stone, circle it with your arms, turn your feet in circles, and hit it hard on the water surface, causing a series of ripples, along with happiness, excitement and laughter, rippling away in circles.
I don’t want to recall the past, but I know deeply that I cannot let myself go. The crimson clouds and the drizzle many years ago will always bring out an inexplicable emotion, beauty and sadness. Simply hang your childhood high on the treetops, like a bright red persimmon. It's too late, the annual rings of time have quietly climbed up the forehead, the wind caressed the top of the head regretfully, the bare branches and a few persimmons left intentionally or unintentionally have become thin and shriveled in the play and pecking of birds. But we stubbornly picked up the lanterns to illuminate the dark night, not wanting to be alone. We picked up the limp and fragmented fruits that were thrown by the wind and chewed them slowly.
In the empty space and distant chirping of cuckoos, the golden wheat ears are heavy, and my childhood was spent in the hot wheat fields. I thought about harvesting my childhood, but the thorns of the awns hurt me, and the thorns of the wheat stubble sharply reduced my enthusiasm. I wish I could put on the cloth shoes made by my mother and walk bravely in the fields. I know that it all seems like yesterday, so I can only pick up the scattered ears of wheat scattered among the ridges and pile them gently in my heart. The bluestone on the ground squats quietly in the grass. The body that has gone through wind and rain is engraved with the moment and eternity, like a wise old man, knowing the past and watching the present. I dusted off the soil from my feet and snuggled next to me, my thoughts following the thread of my mother's shoes, strand after strand, darning my childhood.
Do you barefoot friends still remember that river beach? Can the "bad uncle" who lies to children about watching airplanes, but is actually "crazy" still be playful and naughty? In the village, there are still villagers talking loudly and in low voices, so they follow the sounds to identify: friends, neighbors, peers, elders? Their efforts are in vain, most of them have met the junior once, twice or never! I don't want to speak. My hometown is no longer recognizable. Just like me at this moment, I leave silently. After leaving, childhood friends and elders may dissolve into the city or return to the land forever. In a trance, flowers are everywhere, red clouds are flowing, mountain springs are tinkling, and birds are chirping... They are all illusions, but I still insist on being connected with my childhood.
With apprehension, I walked timidly into my earthen courtyard. There were no fences or walls. The narrowest part was covered with wild jujube thorns and old wooden boards. After many years of separation, the appearance of my hometown has changed. The waist-high wormwood, peeling wall coverings, and rusty iron locks... tell the story of loneliness and desolation. The neighbor's red brick and cement bungalow is very new, and the ground in the yard has been hardened. Although there is no grass growing, a thick layer of leaves has fallen, and it is quiet, as if no one has been back for a long time.
The sunset blushes half of the face, and the sunset stubbornly decorates the distant mountains, even if it falls into darkness. Not knowing what to do, I seemed at a loss. Suddenly I remembered that I should open the door and brush off the dust on the floor tiles, walls, and pit mats. Maybe my childhood and hometown were inside.