The well, the path, the loofah vine, always inexplicably pull my nightmares. Dreaming back to a long-lost time, the hometown of the path let me fade all the fatigue to seek the warmth of the heart.
The path is muddy and curved like a ribbon connecting home and the outside world. One end is the pursuit, one end is the thought. Always remember our path, narrow and long, ditches and cans with the roadside grass and wildflowers dance lightly, accompanied by the laughter of our way to school, but also have some fresh and elegant. The path is mostly dirt, when it rains wet and muddy, mixed with the aroma of dirt, but also have another interest.
Looking at each other is the childhood grandma's that under the loofah vine. Grandma planted a few loofahs on the left side of the old hall in front of the house, and when the spring flowers bloomed, it woke up a few lazy loofah vines, which formed a loofah pergola along the shelves under the urging of the cool breeze. One by one in the pergola swaying with the wind, a yellow loofah flowers dotted with them, exuding a burst of fragrance. In the evening, everyone came to this melon pergola to cool off as promised, when the leisure time is always in the hand shaking the fan and the clock hand gossip, always in a burst of laughter ushered in the spring flowers, fall and moon. The fireflies under the loofah vines looked like stars from the sky, and the silver-white, dynamic light floated beside us. Our childhood fun was to chase the light of the fireflies and laugh and play. If you are thirsty, you can go home and scoop up a bowl of water and drink it, and the sweetness and coolness of the water will moisturize your soul.
The well, the clarity of the well water, the tenderness of the well water, the coolness of the well water, the purity of the well water, the warmth of the well water. And who will be a compartment of thoughts?
Always think about the long village path, let time to sharpen their memories into a landscape, exist in a corner of the heart. Quietly, carefully chew that past, the mood is comfortable to the extreme. Think about it, such as a cup of wine in the spring breeze, drunk in the river of memory, do not think about it, such as a quiet autumn night with a little pale, a little sadness. I don't want to think about it, but I think it's a good thing that it exists. It turns out that the happiness is so simple, but the storms on the road of life is too "tense, frequent", it is too late to go back to look at each other. And that nostalgia has become gray hairs tell the point.
The memory of the replay is just a kind of leisure life, looking back at the time carved in the beautiful. We from ignorant teenagers to mature middle-aged, walked through the road is not just a little bit, and life with the change of time is not just a little bit.
Memory of the path is no longer potholes, no longer narrow and muddy, but a straight cement road through the village, like a silver-white snake meandering to each household. The trees on both sides are verdant and upright, like guards standing guard over a clean land. The joy of laughter can't be beat by the sound of big cars and small cars honking happily. Outside the door is a clean road is no longer muddy, the road, become wider and more beautiful, but vaguely there is still the shadow of the road.
The loofah under the vine no longer exists, that sit on the ground to cool the scenery into the village of the old and middle-aged square dance, in the leisure time is no longer gossip gossip but twisted up the rice-planting song, that is, exercise the body and cultivate the sentiment. The village is not only only planting the land, will play all the high-tech. The dancing fireflies also with the grandmother's generation of people in the mountains. They may only be able to stand on the top of the mountain to look up, look up to the rapid changes brought to the village changes. That under the loofah vine is just a fragment of memory, occasionally become a taste of longing.
Little by little, they are collected in the quiet time, the road, under the watermelon vine, and the lonely old well. Everything at home became my miss, became my sadness.