Since you left, the wind of the cottage has wafted with the smell of thoughts
Perhaps, July's nickname is Miss
Stepping into the summer, I feel as if I'm getting closer to you
Because of frequent dreams
I've told a lot of people my story about me and you
Over and over again, I was tired and in tears
As it is now, memory and loss have left me with a double entanglement
But I rarely mention it at home
Because your loss is the pain of my loved one
I have an oil-paper umbrella with patterns painted on it
I have a rose T-shirt that looks like a flower
I have a much larger pair of black leather shoes with small flowers on them
I have so much joy with you
I'm really thinking about you
What about you
My grandmother
A few days ago, when I went to my uncle's house, I met an aunt in the village, walking on crutches, trembling and shaking, a little unstable. His hair is gray and thin, hunched over and stooped.
I recognize: she's a good friend of yours.
When I see her, I feel like I see you. You say, a few more years, are you like this, white-haired, gentle smiling?
I called out to grandma, like I did when I was a child, but it didn't seem like that.
Grandma's eyes lit up: Is it a swallow, are you back? Growing up so big, they have become big girls.
Grandma looked at me and smiled: I can also be considered that she grew up watching.
Well, back.
Alas, Shimei is not blessed, otherwise now you see, the little swallows have grown so big.
Well, who says it's not. Brush the tears and they come down.
Because of you, I will run away as soon as the holidays are over. Even overnight, I have to take a car to your house.
In the spring, you hide a lot of Candy for new year gifts, quietly Mimi stuffed for me;
In the summer, you take me to dig wild shoots all over the mountains; sometimes you take advantage of my nap to sneak up on farm work, and when you wake up, you don't see you, and the barefoot village cries and shouts at you;
In the fall, most of you come to my house. Help your mother harvest rice, grind peppers, the heat is not the same, and sometimes it will be told by the grumpy mother;
In winter, the fire bucket in your house is always warm, listen to your mother's rebellion and the story of your little feet;
Oops, I don't remember a lot of them.
But the way you look is in my head.
Lately, I have often dreamed of you and cannot see your face. Sometimes it's you who bend down in front of that little hut on the hill to dry the quilt, sometimes you walk with your back to me, sometimes we dig bamboo shoots together in the bushes next to the reservoir, and you turn your back on me; I'm like a shackle, fixed there, I don't cry, dreaming of you is a happy thing.
But when I woke up, I always regretted it, and I didn't call you, I didn't call you for a long time...