The south of the Yangtze River is good, and the scenery is old. Pen ~ fun ~ pavilion www.biquge.info

The sunrise river flowers are red, and the spring river is as green as blue.

Can not remember Jiangnan.

The first time I saw this poem, it was on a teacup, how vulgar.

The last time I returned to Jiangnan, to that melancholy town, to the place where my soul belonged, it was many years later, and what I thought was familiar had been buried in the torrent of time.

Surrounded by people, Frost got on the canopy covered with red silk, just like the wedding I had once encountered, but this was my dream, but now it is someone else's scene.

I was at the back of the crowd, looking at her from afar and laughing, and she smiled at me. It's just that after time, I can't recognize her anymore, and she is no longer familiar with me, and the light smile that comes up is so strange when she stares at her.

Leaving the crowd, I go back to where I used to be.

The courtyard had changed several owners, but the old man's closed door had never been opened again.

I was in the courtyard, staring at the old wooden door, and I couldn't find the original shadow anymore.

The grandmother who took a nap in the sun, the old man who gave me porcelain, and the always gentle and elegant Jingxi, at this time, only a vague shadow was left in his mind.

And the girl who was drawing in the yard, I can't remember what she looked like.

Until I went to the field behind the town, tore off the vines of attachment, and sat by my grandmother's grave, I could no longer find the "Autumn Tomb",

It dawned on me that I might never be able to find the lost soul again. Because I have buried myself in this land, in the rainy season in the south of the Yangtze River, in those landscapes and the past.

If I still remember, it is the fireworks of the old scenery in the south of the Yangtze River. So far, the fireworks I have seen elsewhere are not as good as those fireworks, just because they are so beautiful, so gorgeous, and so beautiful, which is the unique label of Jiangnan.

Sometimes, I wonder if every Jiangnan woman is like me?

As brilliant as the fireworks. Life was like the fireworks of that year, and in a moment, it turned into a cold remnant star.

A shadow and a person, a lifetime, a smoke and a dust.

I don't know where I came from, I don't know how I came to this town that makes the world feel so sad.

When I first remembered, I couldn't find any emotion about the word "mother", except for my grandmother, who occasionally pulled out some old yellowed black and white photos with missing edges, pointed to the woman above and said to me, this is mother. I didn't seem to understand, and nodded in response to her with an "oh oh". Grandma said that she was the mother of that woman, and that woman was my mother. She repeatedly emphasized the relationship, and I still couldn't understand it at the time, but kept nodding my head intently. Later, my grandmother saw through my perfunctory behavior and was depressed alone for an afternoon without saying a word to me.

Later, when I grew up, from the perspective of others talking about "the child of that family, the mother went very early", I gradually understood some old things and family affection.

I lived with my grandmother for several years, and it was a quiet time.

The sunshine in Jiangnan is stingy. My grandmother liked to sit on the lame little stool wrapped in a lot of cloth on a sunny day, but it still couldn't be fixed, and thread needles in the yard. She has bad eyes, but she has excellent patience, and sometimes she wears it all afternoon, maybe she has worn it, but her eyes are spent, and she can't see clearly, so she thinks she hasn't put it on yet. I squatted on the ground beside her, spread out the notebook that was supposed to be for homework, scribbled and painted, and the afternoon passed.

There are two other families in the courtyard where my grandmother lives, and directly across the gate is an old man who is obsessed with antiques, and his grandson is said to be studying in a big city outside, and he comes back to see him twice a year, for about a week at a time. Once, when his grandson saw the scribbles in my homework book, he suddenly asked, "You want to be a painter when you grow up, right?" I looked up at him, and after a while, I quickly took my notebook and ran back into the house. Later, he always chased me to see the villain drawn in my notebook, and the farther I avoided, the more closely he followed. Gradually, I don't know why, I got acquainted with him, and every time I drew it, I was the first one to show him.

His name was Jingxi, the name given by the old man. The years that followed, because of the two weeks I saw him every year, became warm and long.

Just as I was getting a little bit of a clue, something happened quietly.

It was still a sunny and gentle afternoon, and the sheets on the bamboo poles in the yard were evaporating little by little, and there were no traces of such wetness. On the lame stool with a lot of strips of cloth, my grandmother leaned against the wall with the needle and thread in her hand, resting in the miserly sun. The cotton thread in her hand had not yet passed through the small pinhole, and she said goodbye to the rainy world in such a quiet attitude. There was no slight frown, no elusive smile on the corner of her mouth, she just closed her eyes and fell asleep as she usually enjoyed the warmth of the sun. Only, never woke up again. At that time, I only thought she was asleep, and I didn't know how sad it was.

Later, I didn't wake my grandmother again, and no one could wake her up. They all said that Grandma had gone. And I don't know where my grandmother went, as they said, but it must have been far away.

It wasn't until two days later, when my father, whom I remember seeing only a few times, came back that I realized that my grandmother was gone forever. The drizzle lingered for days, and the sky finally stopped crying.

On the day of my grandmother's funeral, they carried the heavy coffin for a long time, and along the way, the white and yellow paper money was thrown into the air, and then floated down and soaked in the stagnant water of the bluestone slabs. I followed the group, looking down at the white flowers on my chest, and stepping on the bluestone slab with a heavy drum beat. It wasn't until the town was left behind me that I looked up and saw large fields of bright yellow rape flowers. The funeral procession walking on the ridge shuttles between the bright yellow and emerald green paintings, which is abrupt and incompatible with this oil painting-like scenery.

In the evening, there was a low mound and a newly erected stone monument in the clearing between the flowers. I sat by my grandmother's monument, and the people had gone away, and they didn't notice that I was still here. I crumpled the rape flowers and sprinkled the bright yellow petals on my grandmother's grave, feeling a suffocating sadness in the darkening twilight.

In the autumn of the year my grandmother died, my father brought a woman with a big belly from elsewhere and said, "From now on, she will be my mother." Again, I heard the word "mother" that made me feel weak, and I remembered the pictures my grandmother had shown me, and I thought that only the face in the photos could be called "mother", but then it seemed that it was not. (To be continued.) )