My father planted a pomegranate tree from a neighbor's house, and after two years it had grown into bloom; I loved its pink fragrance, and my sister loved that she could apply her fingernails in floral red.
May should be its flowering season, first the unopened pink flower bones, followed by gradually opening, and later stretching the flower buds inside. The flowering period should be very long, I often run over after the snow to count the flowers on it, one, two or three... Oh, eight more flowers today than yesterday. Sometimes I stood dumbfounded, watching their foolish laughter, and a ripple had already rippled in my heart; my Father planted it under the window of the West House, and I often opened the window in the house, and invited their branches and leaves, along with the flowers on them, into my room, and after a few days they secretly ran out again. After a few times, I was a little angry, and I thought of a way to tie them to the window with a small rope so that they could not go out, and I was proud of it for several days, and then I stood outside and looked at the flowers on the trees and the flowers I tied to the window, and the flowers that I tied up were small and thin, and my heart was soft, and they liked the sun more than a person who was affectionate to her. Later I learned that liking a person or something can't restrain her, you can only let it go.
When the flowers are in bloom, there are always some bugs on them to make trouble, and although they love the flowers, I will not allow them to come. I always had to take some time to clear them, some lying between the branches, some hiding behind the leaves, their color was very similar to the color of the tree, a bit like a caterpillar, the gray head had a tentacle, in my limited knowledge, I did not know their real names, I caught them and took them to my father, and I also took them to my mother, and they did not give me an answer, until now, I did not know their names. Since they are not familiar with anyone, I am not polite to them, and directly catch them to the grass chickens raised at home to eat, which is also considered to improve the diet of the native chickens.
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I don't allow my sister to pick the flowers on top, and although I know she likes to apply her nails and make her fingernails look red, and she likes to let others see them, I never look at them. I knew that the red nails on her hands were all smeared little by little with mashed pomegranate flowers, and then wrapped up one by one with small pieces of paper, and overnight, the next morning, she would be eager to open the small pieces of paper again, and the pink color was printed on her thin and short nails. She showed her father, she showed her mother, and she gave her friends who were more dark red in color, and then giggled triumphantly all day. Regardless of the joys and sorrows of the world, the flower always unfolds her graceful flower buds when it is time for him to bloom. Later, when the courtyard changed several times, my sister and I tried our best to persuade my father to keep the pomegranate tree, and my father would always take a step back in his difficult choices, touching our heads kindly and saying that he would let him grow for two more years. Although those days were said to be poor, life bloomed carefree like a pomegranate flower. We imagined that maybe my father would cut it off one day, and we just looked forward to it coming a little later. Once it was raining in the night, and the next morning I ran over and looked at the mess of petals, and I called out to my sister, who was still sleeping in bed, and picked up some of the petals that had fallen on the ground, and I blew them dry and clipped them in my elementary school Language textbook.
Reference a web image
Later, my father was determined to cut it off, and my sister and I were sad for a long time, and I thought that I was more elegant than my sister, she was sad that she had nothing to wear red nails, and I was like a good friend who could tell her heart to suddenly change schools and leave this place; and I was born with an unspeakable dazedness and loss.
Web pictures
In the vacant place, my father reclaimed a vegetable field and planted it for many years. Until my sister and I left home to go to school. Later, when I think about this matter, I always feel that since then, there have been more flavors in life, but one less color.
Some Memories of Flowers, July 13, 2019