When I closed my eyes
All of a sudden, I felt like summer arrived.
It could be the white plastic sun above your head.
A prophecy was made in that confused moment.
Cold feet still hanging on top of a big tree.
It's quiet in the alley. It's like when I was a little girl.
The joy of the warm sun rolling around in the yard.
Sometimes there's a little bird whispering and a wind and a leaf talking.
But that summer afternoon will never end.
Just like the river next to it.
The whole yard we live in.
# Hold it softly and hold it in my arms #
There are some green lines that appear in the sky.
Yellow fruit-flavored popsicles can meet green melons.
I remember the overlap of the electronic screen in the square. Lee.
♪ Little white rabbits ♪
Chocolate turned into soil, into a garden for all refrigerator televisions.
But I can always remember.
There's lots of hot little bread, peanuts and ugly.
The bitter raisins.
It'll be in the dreams of a fragrance.
It's the sighs she's turning around to raise her hand.
And I'll be there forever.
He was lying on the roof watching the clouds.
The clouds of September are best seen, especially in the evening, when they wander in the sky and gather, and then come together in various shapes like little children, sometimes like little rabbits in their homes, sometimes with long strips at the end of a cloud, like a piece of rag torn apart, with a few ripples of threads, and when he sees a cloud like this, he thinks of the old clothes that his grandmother wore when she went to the Yellow River.
In the mountains far away, the guns were fired again, and a bang squeaked, and he looked at the clouds as he could see God, and he was scared, and the body leaning on the roof stomped, as if in order to cooperate. He struts his head in the direction of the sound waves, looking beyond the watermelons he planted at home, the fields of sunflowers far away, and the green vines of the watermelons seem to be entwined with the gold and yellow of the sunflowers, flying in the air with a silk belt linking him and the white smoke that rose slowly from the back of the hill.
Daddy's coming back tomorrow, he'll go to school in town, he'll go to school in town. That's what Dad told him. Dad's up there. Every time a cannon goes off in the mountains, he runs out of the house, climbs up the roof, stares at the white smoke that slowly rises up, sits down with one ass, folds his hands together, and watches the white fog dissipating, sometimes as if he could see his father, sometimes when the fog was gone, he would not feel a bit of tears, and when he lifted up his bare hands to wipe his tears, his face would be sore.
He's afraid Dad's gone too.
The clouds slow down, as if there were signs of a fallback, and the smoke, as if there were no signs of a ready dissipation, gathered in pieces towards the sky, as if it were a difficult but worthwhile path, and turned into a moving cloud. The sunsets kind of burned the clouds, and the corners of many clouds seem to have slightly changed color, turning them into yellow corners, like the eggs that Grandma cooked for him. The sun is starting to shine, and the clouds are like fried eggs, as if they were ripe, and they can't stop the red light that's about to spill. He reached out and stood up and climbed off the roof, standing in the light of his face.
Primary school is what.
He doesn't know, no one has explained it to him.
He only knows he's nine years old. It's time to go to primary school. Dad and Grandma told him that. And the kids who were too young to play with him and always called him "Fish Scab." Those kids were gone a year ago. He only remembers the last time he saw them, with their hands open, with their arms raised, and two with the two sides of a triangle red cloth in their hands. A group of their children ran out of his face like swallows, and brought up dust like a muddy wall. He looked through the dust at their hands, and the red cloth left in the wind, and the only red horn left was to dance under the back of the heads of the children, like a breath of whirling. He felt that the red horn was flying with them.
"What are you taking?" And he was crouched on the ground, with a straw in his hand, and he drew a circle on the earth without destination.
The dust hasn't fallen yet, and he's feeling a little lost.
"The red scarf of a primary school student, you don't!" It seems to have been heard through the dust for a long time, even after all these years of ridicule.
When he came to the village, he heard firecrackers and saw a long white team walking slowly in the distance, wearing white top hats, broad white sackcloths and low and sharp tears. And in the sound of the firecrackers, the crumbs were stinging slowly and heavy, and he was dazzled in the dark, and sent into his ear. He stood alone at the entrance of the village, looking at the straight white road ahead, and the firecrackers brought smoke, and it seemed that the undissolved smoke collide between the back of the hill and people's tears and cracks seemed to be increasing.
Both sides of the road, at every small distance, are stoned white paper, four-sided, which looks clean. He followed the road and drew several from under the rock. Grandma told him that this roadside paper can't be played. It's bad luck. He did not understand what was called bad luck, and he simply felt that the paper was too clean and that he had never seen the paper of the Quadrilateral so white.
The white paper that was drawn from under the rock left a black scratch, and he gently hit the black mark on it and did not. It's getting darker, and the white paper seems to be tanned. He put a piece of paper in his pocket, turned in his direction and ran towards the dam to the west, where Grandma was and the sun seemed not to have fallen.
Turning over the dam, he was standing on the dam, and he saw a couple of mini-cars scattered in the bush under the dam, and a few scattered crowds sitting around each other with little stools, and talking about laughter as their barbeque came in to the left of the mouth and came out to the right. The forest is filled with garbage bags, plastic bottles and unidentified debris. The distant sunset struck on the side of the yellow river, with a wave of light, like a wide and transparent tape, and he stood on the dam, and the light of the river reflected with several coal fires seemed to be beating on his eyelids. The smell of carbon fire brought him the smell of smoke and barbecue, and he swallowed his mouth, held on to his coat filled with white paper and continued to look for Grandma. Grandma was supposed to be a good searcher, and she should be carrying a big knitted bag filled with plastic bottles of all colours.
A lot of bubbles flew in and he put his hands in his waist, looked to the left, stood on the high dam, and the red wave was his background, and he was like a brave little hero. A few children each had long flat-tongue toys in their hands, their mouths were close, and they blew towards that long elliptical flat-tongue. Each bubble was a very big bubble. Several bubbles floated towards him, and he reached out and touched his hand, and the dry-drive skin touched the bubble, and the bubble broke. He was a bit sad to back off.
The children seemed tired, throwing their bubble-blowing toys into the garbage pile of the grass, running back to the small table where the crowd gathered, picking up a string of lambs and eating them. Grandma was at that little table, and she was sitting on a little mazza, next to her knitting bag, which didn't look like a drum, and she licked her mouth and covered her mouth in a gutter. The young man at the table handed over another string of lambs to her, and she seemed a little embarrassed and wiped her hands off her worn clothes and picked them up. He watched his grandmother pick up the lamb string and licked his dry, broken lips, and he stopped looking.
He went down from the dam, and put his head in the dump of the grassland, which was covered by the sunset, and he went around the group of people and grandmothers to the place where the children had blown bubbles. The sun was setting, and the sky was getting reder on the Yellow River, and he was carrying the dropped bubble toys, and he ran to the river, facing the sunset, and started blowing bubbles like those kids. The sunset is getting redder, and distant clouds no longer have shapes, and they become red faint, even as a result of the reflection of the huge river. There's not much foam in the bubble toy, so he can never blow out any of the huge bubbles he touched earlier.
The sound of the shore gathers, and those who come in small cars gather in a shallow stretch of the shore, with their backs to the sun, their shadows to remember, their adults and their children running with their smiles, and all shapes, like raising the sun.
He pulled the white paper out of his pocket on the grass, and the original square white paper lost shape, and it seemed that some change had been made in his pocket. He had some anguish in levelling them one by one, but was still unable to remove the marks left by the squeeze. Some of the winds were like blowing them away, and he had to pick up a rock and press them, just like in the beginning.
He doesn't want to fly, he doesn't want to fly to the city like those kids, holding on to the red triangle. He's on a paper boat, thinking if only he were a little fish. That way, when all of them were holding on to the triangle and flying to the city, his slab could turn him into a little fish, to stay in the Yellow River, to stay at the foot of the mountain, to stay with Grandma and Dad. He folded very carefully, and did not notice that the people on the shore had left in a car, and the sun was about to fall into the bottom of the Yellow River, leaving only a dark red river. After nine small boats had been folded, he put them gently into the dark red river, and the sun looked at him softly under the shore.
He looked at a small boat that went against the current, and took up a toy that was no longer foam-free and blew a big bubble that floated over a small boat that hit its head. They shake, and the only sun on the shore reflects on their snow. Little fish, like, flashing light, gradually disappearing in reverse currents.
It was about to fade down, and he turned back, and it was already dark and quiet behind him. Grandma should go back, looking at the mountains not far, and the last purple light is covered by the rise and fall curve. The smoke between the back of the mountain remains intact, and the hidden red light remains invisible in the smoke.
When Dad came back tomorrow, he took the thought, swam across the dam, in a dark place, towards the house where the lights were lit far away, and swam backwards.