初夏的信 – A Letter in Early Summer

chū xià de xìn

nà nián chū xià, tā dì gěi wǒ yī fēng xìn, xìn zhǐ wēi zhòu. wǒ dú hòu xīn zhōng yǒng qǐ yī zhèn chàng wǎng, yīn wèi zì lǐ háng jiān mǎn shì gào bié. hòu lái tā bān zǒu le, wǒ cháng cháng zhàn zài kōng dàng de xiàng kǒu, nà zhǒng chàng wǎng xiàng cháo shuǐ bān màn shàng lái, yān mò zhěng piàn huáng hūn.

duō nián hòu ǒu rán chóng féng, tā yǐ wéi rén qī. wǒ wàng zhe tā méi shāo de xì wén, hū rán shēng chū shēn shēn de juàn liàn — juàn liàn nà xiē yī qǐ qí chē fàng xué de xià wǔ, juàn liàn tā zhā mǎ wěi shí diào luò de suì fà. kě zhè juàn liàn hěn kuài bèi kuì jiù tūn shì, kuì jiù zì jǐ dāng chū méi yǒu yǒng qì wǎn liú, kuì jiù cǐ kè hái cún zhe bù gāi yǒu de niàn xiǎng.

yè lǐ zhǎn zhuǎn nán mián, wǒ jìng gǎn dào huáng kǒng. huáng kǒng shí jiān huì mó píng suǒ yǒu hén jì, huáng kǒng zhè juàn liàn zhǐ shì tú láo. gèng shēn de huáng kǒng lái zì nèi xīn: ruò tā guò de bù hǎo, wǒ gāi rú hé zì chǔ? kě dāng wǒ tīng shuō tā hūn yīn xìng fú, yòu mò míng yǒng qǐ fèn mèn — fèn mèn mìng yùn zhuō nòng, fèn mèn zì jǐ chéng le jú wài rén. zhè fèn mèn wú chù ān fàng, zhǐ hǎo huà zuò yī shēng tàn xī.

rú jīn wǒ xué huì yǔ zhè xiē qíng xù gòng cún. chàng wǎng shì jiù shū yè lǐ de gān huā, juàn liàn shì yuè guāng xià de yǐng zi, kuì jiù shì zhā jìn zhǐ jiān de cì, huáng kǒng shì wèi jì chū de xìn, fèn mèn shì yǔ yè de léi shēng. tā men dōu zài, dàn bù zài téng tòng. zhǐ shì ǒu ěr, dāng wǒ lù guò nà kē lǎo huái shù, hái huì wén dào xìn zhǐ shàng dàn dàn de zhī zi huā xiāng.

A Letter in Early Summer

That early summer, she handed me a letter, the paper slightly wrinkled. After reading it, a wave of melancholy surged in my heart, because between the lines was full of farewell. Later she moved away, and I often stood at the empty alley entrance, that melancholy rising like a tide, drowning the entire dusk.

Years later, we met again by chance; she was already married. Looking at the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, I suddenly felt a deep nostalgia—nostalgia for those afternoons when we rode bikes home from school, nostalgia for the stray hairs that fell when she tied her ponytail. But this nostalgia was soon swallowed by guilt—guilt that I didn’t have the courage to stop her back then, guilt that I still harbored improper thoughts at this moment.

Tossing and turning at night, I actually felt fear. Fear that time would smooth away all traces, fear that this nostalgia was futile. A deeper fear came from within: if she wasn’t doing well, how should I handle myself? But when I heard that her marriage was happy, I inexplicably felt resentment—resentment at fate’s tricks, resentment that I had become an outsider. This resentment had nowhere to go, so it turned into a sigh.

Now I have learned to coexist with these emotions. Melancholy is a dried flower in an old book, nostalgia is a shadow under moonlight, guilt is a thorn stuck in a fingertip, fear is an unsent letter, resentment is the thunder on a rainy night. They are all there, but no longer painful. Only occasionally, when I pass by that old locust tree, I still smell the faint gardenia fragrance on the letter paper.

音频

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