Wild roses grew on the banks of the river, luxuriant in foliage and deep in shade. Single-petal flower, white, pure appearance, there is Yingying light fragrance, fly on the branches, decorated with flowers between the branches of light but Qingmeng.
Flowers just bloom well, annoying cicadas gradually die down, iced watermelon for all ages, well water and river water are cooler than tap water, villagers know that summer is coming.
Summer, the village girl to the river to wash clothes, do not pestle anvil, wash by hand. Laundry in the bucket rub up foam, and then float into the water to float, rub a few times, pick up, wrung, drying, folding.
Newly washed clothes, change on the body, running water, sunlight and laundry soap smell mixed together, let people feel extremely intimate. I like this refreshing and natural smell, all the way along.
In the past, the river water was clear and clear. There were fish in the water, slender silver bars that never seemed to grow. Bamboo shadows fall on the surface of the water, the wind blows, it wrinkles, ripples are also chaotic. Sunlight, broken into dazzling flakes, sprinkled among the trees, flickering, shining people can not open their eyes.
Mom sometimes goes to the river to wash clothes, and I follow. Take off shoes, walk up and down in the sand, eat a bag of sour plum, wash hands, roll up trouser legs, stand in the water, sand from the foot flow, sour itch, wind from the fingers through, cool silent.
Perhaps because the water and soil by the river were good, the plants were bustling, those who knew their names, those who didn't know their names, those who climbed, those who were parasitic, those who were handsome, those who were scribbled…all eyes were green and lush.
Only the wild rose branches bloom with a white, pure white, open in summer, Yangyan, Yangxin, Yangji.
I looked at it like this, separated by sunlight, separated by water, and wind, two phases without words.
She thought I was staring at something. I pointed to a plant with white flowers not far away and asked, who planted it? Wild, she said, the wind blew its seeds, and it gave birth to a little rain.
Wild is good. I ran to pick the briar roses, and no one answered. Although careful, but still pricked the finger, no bleeding, just a slight pain, I looked back at her, not noticed by her, inevitably lost.
Holding four or five flowers in his hand, as white as snow, he sat on a stone, buried his feet in the sand, picked up the lightest flower and pinned it in his hair. He liked it so much that he didn't know what to do. He completely forgot the pain of stabbing his fingertips.
Petals one by one off, folded in the palm, very light very light. Many of my favorite flowers are light, light in color and light in fragrance, like wild roses, scattered by a blow, floating and beautiful.
This reminds me of when I was younger, once I went to see Cantonese opera with her, and the performance was Dou E Yuan. The bitter woman was dragged out and beheaded, blood splashed on the white practice, and the sky suddenly snowed, slowly, slowly.
Not if catkins rise from the wind. It was June, and I still didn't understand the meaning of a play, but clearly, the snow fell one after another that moment, the whole theater shed was quiet. They said the play was well acted.
But how can it snow in June? I don't understand. Even if it snows in June, on such a hot day, the snow will melt and eventually turn into rain.
I want to tell her that the wild rose in summer is snow that will not melt.
The woman who was washing clothes with her eyebrows lowered was focused and serious. She wiped the water off her forehead with the back of her hand and picked up a white shirt, as if picking up a soft moonlight, gentle and quiet.
Looking back at her through time, how young she was then, her hair was black and long, braided, tied with a red head rope, everyday plain face, that kind of beauty, not delicate, not grand, but simple, plain true, let me remember to this day.
Later, I wrote in the text of fireworks woman, more or less a bit of her shadow, laundry, cooking, planting vegetables, cooking soup, knitting scarves... content with ordinary, but also happy with ordinary.
She did not know what it meant to be "willing to win a person's heart, white head does not separate", but with him close love, content with the south, a porridge, a meal and a cup of tea, there is also ordinary joy.
Only, when I began to understand her time, the old days, she is old.
The wild roses by the river bank scattered in the summer of that year, slowly developing the background color of heaven, slowly thin and cool as water...
Wen/Qinhuai Sang
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