<h1 class= "pgc-h-arrow-right" > love to the end of the water is difficult to harvest</h1>
【Novel】Text/Leaf Half Bed
After Teacher Mi left the office, the other teachers told me, Xiao Xuan, don't pay attention to Teacher Mi, she has a problem here, they pointed to their heads and said. And she didn't finish it as soon as she said it, and it was always those old things. Then they frowned and did not forget to add, we have all heard it tired of it. I looked at them with twelve points of wonder and my heart was full of doubt. I nodded my head in understanding and turned to leave, and behind the gaze, I seemed to see the infinite indifference in their eyes again.
However, every time Teacher Mi saw me, it was like there was no end to the words. I don't know if it's because she's too short of talking to her or because too many people isolate her, but I feel deeply excited when she sees me. Even if I stopped myself from asking her questions, weekly group workshops would never avoid seeing each other. My promise to everyone was delayed: as soon as she opened her mouth and looked into her eyes, I couldn't muster up the courage to interrupt her. Besides, from her words and demeanor, I could feel her lingering talent. The sideways glances of many people make me feel even more uneasy, and I also feel that this unwelcome strange woman must have a person or story that she will never forget.
One summer morning, I was hurrying from outside the gate to the classroom. In the distance, I saw Teacher Mi wrapped in a dress that was popular in the late 1980s and walking slowly. She greeted me from afar, her face shining brightly. I smiled at her, signaled that she had a lesson, and hurried away. But her skirt, which had passed out of fashion, fluttered and swayed in my heart. After the week's workshop, I tried to ask her if she could go shopping together. She listened for a moment in surprise, then laughed again. Say, wow! You know, I don't seem to have been shopping for a long time, and the clothes I bought many years ago, and sometimes I have grabbed my daughter's clothes to wear. Daughter? This time it was my turn to be surprised.
I really didn't expect that Teacher Mi looked only like she was in her thirties, but she actually had a daughter who was 16 years old, learning dance at an art school, and came back once a month. She talked about her daughter and talked endlessly. For more than a decade, she and her daughter have lived together. In her narration, I vaguely saw her and her daughter scrambling for things, I saw her and her daughter changing into new clothes, and I saw her and her daughter dancing to the sound of music. Yes, dancing. She loves to dance, and when she talks about dancing, her eyes will radiate a strange brilliance, and her body will dance unconsciously. She was completely unlike a middle-aged woman in her forties, nor did she have the maturity and steadiness of a woman of this age.
She is a woman from a foreign land, a mountain full of wild fruits, who especially likes to dance. At that time, she and he, on the dance floor, dumped the whole city, dimming the starlight every night. He, her husband, was the father of her daughter. She spoke of the way they danced together, always intoxicated, with a sweet and indulgent look. So, now, what about him? What about the man who made her obsessed with following and obsessing? I don't know, she didn't tell me the result. All I know is that the daughter who is attached to her looks exactly like the dance floor that has fascinated her all her life.
Perhaps, in this world, what is righteous is love, and what is difficult to harvest is also love. But whatever the outcome, life goes on. Perhaps there should be a reason for her loneliness, and there should be an inexhaustible source of her nagging. In her body, I am afraid that there is a kind of attachment complex that has a special affection. This complex locked her whole life. Her body seemed to be stained with the smell of sweet and sour wild fruits on the mountains of her hometown. Those fruits made her reminisce for half a lifetime, and she was entangled for decades.
In the vivid color of the twenty-first century, the rapidly changing twenty-first century, I heard a love story that was faded by the water. The protagonist in the story flashed pure eyes and told me affectionately about that unrepentant love; endlessly, it was a long wait. Who knows, maybe one day the man will come back again, with a vicissitude, with a tiredness of repentance.
December 2010