The rain overnight did not stop when I woke up in the morning. Only wait. In the afternoon, the rain stopped.
The journey back to my hometown was smooth. The country road climbed up, and when we reached the village demarcation, we stopped. Looking from afar, the clouds are steaming and the green mountains are like daisies.
I don't know what ** is in the distance, I just know that looking at it like this, it is a landscape splashing ink painting. Azure color, after the smoke and rain.
We were a little excited, took a lot of **, and took group photos. These relatives and friends are here to accompany me.
The air is fresh, it is slightly cool in early autumn, and the skin is sensitive but ironed.
After crossing the dividing line, all the way down. On the way, we stopped by the side of the road and picked a handful of wild flowers, white, blue, yellow, purple, unnamed, growing wanton and full of life. People are cruel, for their own little preference. But I also think that in this mountain, there are few people, and they should "open and fall". When we have a thought, flowers are not just flowers.
I placed this bouquet of flowers on the grave. To burn paper, you must be patient enough, you can't turn it, and you have words in your mouth. Kowtowing, the soil was soft after the rain, and I tried my best to get close to the earth, as if I was close to the two old men. Firecrackers rang out, the smell of gunpowder was strong, smoke rose, and for a moment I was covered.
I pretended not to remember what they looked like, maybe I really didn't, after all, after a few years, after all, there are so many things that people need to remember now. Yet, they dwelt in the depths of my heart, and sometimes came to me in my dreams—and if for a time they came into my dreams frequently, I would tell my father, and go back to see them in my place; Or, I myself went back from thousands of miles away, like this time. More often than not, they just look at me from a different perspective, growing up, working, working all day long and finally having a home.
The old house is long gone, and I was stunned for a while. I didn't think about anything, I frowned, not that I was unhappy. My heart is filled, but it is also quiet, peaceful, peaceful. There are so many memories flooding back, there are pictures of running crazy in childhood and laughing too loudly, and countless vows made up to get out of here.
I once asked myself, is there any point in those times fermenting in the years? Maybe. Growing up freely and unfettered, being in close contact with nature, loving sunshine and rain, and being curious about everything should be the answer.
But anyway, there's no going back. Otherwise, why is it called nostalgia? Only by being free can we be nostalgic.
This small village, which has been erased from the map, has no name, only the wild grass is growing wildly, and the walnut trees planted on the edge of the ridge are still there, and it looks lonely from a distance. In fact, how small my hometown is, and my homesickness is so small, no matter how small, it is enough to fill my heart. It sleeps on many nights, makes it difficult for me to sleep, scratches my heart, and a glass of wine is enough to get drunk.
Late one night, I changed my screen name to this one and told myself, "Don't dream about it at midnight." I became a testament to the village, I remember its name, and I can attest to the fact that it raised generations, sent it away, and finally disappeared completely. This is where I came from, but how many stories can I tell about the four seasons here, spring planting and autumn harvest, summer cicadas and winter snow, changing scenery, parents are short, sorrow and joy are mixed, birth, old age, sickness and death ......
How is it possible to quit midnight dreams? There will be many more dead nights when I will be tormented, inspired, seduced, and must come back here. Even if it's just breathing in the air, picking up a handful of dirt, picking a bouquet of wildflowers, breaking a twig here, picking up a few rocks and putting them in your pocket, and talking to the people buried here.
How pretentious is this, what's the point? I once watched others write about their homecoming trips, "I feel like I've been going back to ...... this year."I need this retrospectiveness, I need to think about it, I want to find evidence that I haven't failed. ”
This can be regarded as my "retrospective". Of course, it is not yet known whether it will be a "complete failure", and it is not important. The stubborn back of the year, bent on getting out of this small world, now has no obsession.
When we left, we also climbed upward, and when we reached the demarcation point, we stopped again. Looking back, there are wisps of milky white mountains floating in the distance, and below that is my village. "Qingshan Que is my home", the poet does not deceive me.
May you fall into a dream, and you will look back all the way forward, and you will think of returning.