It was a light summer, and when I was young, it seemed that every day was so sunny.
You can crouch under the shade of the shadowy river and watch the sunlight cross the layers of branches and fall all over the ground, and those mottles are always entangled in the memory, from the heart to the brow.
In the commissary with the name of the shop written in chalk, you can take out all your pocket money in exchange for an ice cream, meet the girl who is impressed, and pretend to be indifferent and hand it over.
You can climb over the courtyard of the red wall and yellow tiles, jump neatly onto a date tree with burr waxes, and rush out of the room before the adults in the room take sticks to rush out, and accidentally tear their newly repaired pants.
You can scoop out the family's rice bran and my father's remaining half bottle of grain wine, tie a washbasin with a film and rope, throw it in the river, the sunset is shrouded in cooking smoke, my mother along the road to find me who has been waiting to fall asleep under the roots of the tree, and I am greeted by a parental double in my sleepy eyes.
Plantains cover the rain, flowers fall into shade, green plum soft teeth, faint hometown, dream chasing butterflies. Liu Jianting, on the summer night of this year
