The setting sun is getting older while the west wind is getting tighter.
Outside the window, there is a plane-tree, which is not big but really similar to the tree that is in my hometown. In spring, it is full of leaves. The leaves are green deep if the stick is dark, while others are light green due to the shallow stick. Although they are close to each other, they have a different appearance and posture. When there is no wind, it looks plump, delicate and dignified. Early in the morning or late at night, in the oblique wind, leaves sway in the background of the sky. You can see the green veins of the leaf back, like countless colorful butterflies dancing there or like a young woman, graceful, with a charming smile.
There are lots of trees in my countryside. The village is in front of the rows of plane-trees, and two people barely fold over some of these trees, which are more than 20 meters high, not too many branches, straight into the sky. There was a black magpie nest in the branch. Every morning and twilight, the magpies chirped and matched the radio music, which became a scenery in the village. I think that in the childhood of these trees, when they were still within reach, the branches must have been hooked off with sickles, dried, and used as firewood in the hearth due to their mushroom-like appearance, just like a hat on the trunk.
When there was a sudden rain that came in the hot summer, my grandmother always put down the farm work, and softly turned over my body on the bed board and said: "Sweetheart, are you feeling hot? Let’s go, I will take you to cool off." That was a great thrill to me, and I jumped up immediately. Grandmother took an old umbrella, with me riding on her shoulder and went out the door. My grandmother said, "a good place to enjoy the cool," underneath a big plane-tree in the village, which was next to a small shallow lotus pond. There was a broken board house, we entered with wet bodies. My grandmother picked a leaf off the plane-tree and put it on my head, as if I was just waking up as a fairy when the lotus was about to open. The heavy rain washed away the summer heat, even the pores of the body were cool, overflowing with flowers. Lotus opened softly and lightly, stretching posture in the wind and rain, just like green skirts flowing with the wind.
I nestled in Grandmother’s arms, waxy voice asked: "Grandma, why will it cool when it rains? Why does the lotus blossom in summer? Why does the leaf turn green in summer?”
"Oh, I have no idea! I just know to look at the sky, and whether it will rain or not tomorrow."
“What about the day after tomorrow and three days from now?" I kept asking.
Grandmother pinched my little face, said: "Just wait for Sweetheart to grow up, then you can teach your grandma."
My heart is a little melancholy, this piece of the lotus pond and that sturdy plane-tree has been a little far away from me. I wish I could grow up quickly, wish I could go back. Then, I would take my grandmother to a walk, see the big trees beside the road that are brilliant. I can point to it, tell her: "Grandma, it is the plane-tree, that is Camphor tree, and it greens for the whole year…”
I would image that my grandmother’s face was full of pride. She suddenly looked at the sky. I knew she wanted to see how the clouds were. But she squinted, always could not see clearly, feeling the sky is further away, self-deprecating said: "ah! useless eyes."
I patted her on the back of the hand, looked over the weather forecast on the phone, said: "Grandma, tomorrow is sunny, this week will not rain, let's go and see plane-trees, and I also can tell you what medicinal value it has.”
I raised my mobile phone, the sky was here, nature was here, not far away. We can get closer to the lotus pond and that plane-tree. Thank you, grandmother, take me to see the rain, let me close to nature, get perceptual understanding. Now, I wish I would take you to see a wide range of plane-trees, to count the medical use of trees. We can understand nature rationally, without feeling confused.
The joy of the plane-tree will last a summer. I always think that the leaves which are full of longing must grow up to look like cattail leaf fans. But in late autumn, the leaves no longer grow bigger, but fall one after another. Then the plane-tree becomes thin and poor, becomes naked, and only some of the bones are left. They become stiff instead, no longer soft and graceful. If folded by hand, sections of bones will break down continuously.
I thought it was cruel, so I went under the tree to pick up a leaf and keep it for memory.
When leaves fall, autumn rides the leaves to come. When autumn comes, people get thin as autumn, and become worried as autumn.
But the golden leaves have no sorrow, they know how to comfort themselves in the autumn wind, and they know that their deep sleep is waiting for the new wake up.
Fallen leaves have their unique beauty, just look like fatigued butterflies. I could even feel the soft cry of the fallen leaves.
I saw my hometown, saw the old tree in front of my old home, and saw the smoke shaking for returning wanderers. For those feet far away from home, for wings flying up into the sky, smoke is a rope that can never be broken off. Just like the tree at the crossroads, its branches point to many roads, but the starting point is just one, and the end point is just one as well. Everyone who leaves the village, has taken away a green leaf, but leaves a root.
I saw the cliffs of my hometown; saw the stone on the cliff, which were blooming together with flowers. I also saw sheep on the cliff, drifting with clouds all over the sky.
I saw my eaves, which are covered with snow in winter, and loaded with birdsong in summer. A string of red chilis hanging on my roof was often seen as a kindling in poor times. Sparrows that were flying around the eaves were always so harmonious to rural families for a good life. It is this eave that is always wrapped around my heart on the road.
I saw my grandmother, who picked up a succession of sticks to make a fire, to not let us freeze in the winter. Those sticks in her hand just like the embellishment of that hard time. Grandmother uses those sticks to put warmth into our hands. The pile of firewood is higher and higher, while my grandmother is shorter and shorter. I saw my grandmother's withered breasts, like two broken begging bowls. I grew up in the countryside while my parents left home and made money in big cities. In this case, my grandmother became the only person that I could depend on. Grandmother means so much to me since I was a baby. A dim red flame lit by my grandmother, became the only shoulder we could rely on and the only warm hand to hold during those cold nights.
What sound conceals your identity, those men who are away from home? What blows you away? Autumn is like this: the leaves were shaken off, and the thoughts of people were hung on the branches. It is time to go back, to see the tree which gave birth to me. It turned green when I grew up and turned yellow when I became an adult. Also, it is time to go back to see my grandmother who has been sleeping among fallen leaves. My dear grandmother, my hurried footsteps are your dense stitches. My dear grandmother, I want to return with my heavy luggage, even if I found the paradise.
Fallen leaves laid on the way home. I will step on the warm carpet to visit my grandmother. Grandmother is also like the fallen leaves, falling down from gorgeous branches slowly. However, she did not wake up any more. In Chinese tradition, falling leaves settle on their roots, which implicates that a person residing elsewhere finally returns to his native land. The withering of my grandmother is like a fallen and fatigued butterfly, she devotes her life to the family in the countryside, and finally, she returns to her beloved place.
In this world, a house cannot keep a person while the road also cannot lead the way. Time cannot stretch out a hand to grasp the clouds of the past for you. If everything can be picked up again, my dear grandmother, I would go to pick up your smile, footsteps and wind. I would make an oil lamp of your love and make a twist of your kindness. I would light it, and put it in my heart, never forgetting the way home.
The day is getting colder, and the tree leaves fall. Trees are close to me. I thought I heard them freezing.
The day is getting colder. Trees stand in a row, secrets in their heart throbbing with pain. But the leaves fall and cover everything.
There is a tree standing on my grandmother's grave, which is my letter to her. The leaves fall each autumn and cover up my grandmother's grave. Those leaves moaning slightly in the wind, just like a group of fatigued butterflies from afar, quietly gathered up their life beautiful moments: a flush, a vow, or a simple sigh.
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