[Looking back at my hometown, drunk on a dream]
Author: Leave a late photo between the flowers
The town of mid-winter, cloaked in snow white, waited. It has sat here for thousands of years, seen flowers blossom, heard birds and insects singing, and has also taken in homecoming wanderers on a bright night.
If someone looks at the scenery by the ancient bridge, they will be able to see the old bluestone slab road in the alley. It is the homeland in the depths of memory, the homesickness of distant pedestrians.
The snow gradually stopped. The town finally waited for a little bit of faltering baggage. For thousands of years, it has waited for people to look back.
Memories are all childhood memories. There was once a grandfather who sold sugar gourds in this corner, who stepped on the wind in the spring and snow in the winter, and never missed every round of the bright moon. I don't know when I never saw him again.
Further down, there is a locust tree in the center of the town. Visitors deeply remember how they competed with their friends, how they fell from trees, and how they got home and were beaten. Thinking about it and laughing, his fearless youth was still shining in the wrinkled rings.
I suddenly remembered the past of the lotus, but all that was left was the embarrassment and shame of being rescued to the shore. Since then, he has vowed to learn to swim. How do you know that because of this incident, he was afraid of the water, so that he returned to the town in a decade or two, and he still could not fulfill his wish to be a teenager.
There was always a big lady doing laundry by the river. She pulled her sleeves high, and there were two bamboo baskets next to the washboard. He was always mischievous, taking advantage of the fact that the eldest lady did not pay attention to the clothes in the basket. If it is not discovered, it will make the big lady wash it again; if it is discovered, it is inevitable that the big lady will complain, and the end will be nothing more than a bamboo board...
Push open the ash-covered door, shake off the exhaustion of the whole body, and rest on the bamboo rocking chair. Father had a pair of skillful hands, and all the materials became practical through his hands. The rocking chair was made specifically for himself by my father. At that time, I was young and did not sleep well, so I had to lie in a comfortable rocking chair and let my father coax himself to sleep. Now my father can't get the tools, but he still talks about getting back to his old business every day.
He came this time to clean up his old home, and then settled in the big city for a long time. It seems that since he went out of town in search of a new world, all the stories have lost the protagonist. This time, the protagonist is himself.
Then the story should end.
He was the most nostalgic, as if all the items were being retained. But after this parting, there was not even a chance to reunite.
"Everyone says that Jiangnan is good, and tourists only meet Jiangnan." The town that used to be coveted by countless people will also be obliterated among the high-rise buildings.