年少时我喜欢把作业本撕下折成纸飞机,在乡村小小的操场上飞着,喜悦与自豪总与它飞的高度等同。可这纸飞机飞得再高,总高不过山头,高不过天上的白云,我捡起纸飞机时总会面对着高山与天空发呆。村中凉亭的故事里,神仙就在云端,他们驾云俯察,看天下人所作所为。从爷爷与叔公们的聊天里,我知道了山的那边是海,海的那边有个台湾岛,三爷爷有可能就在那个岛上。当我们问为什么他不回来,我们也不去找他时,长辈们长长地叹了口气,那里连鸟都飞不过去啊,大概只有云能飘过去。云,还是云,云端之上是不是住着神仙,云端之下的台湾是不是有我的三爷爷,他是不是常抬头看着云,想起自己的小村子。 When I was young, I liked to tear off the homework book into a paper airplane and fly in a small playground in the country. The joy and pride always matched the height of its flying. This paper plane can fly high again, the total height, but the hills, but the sky of clouds, I picked up a plane when the paper will always face a daze in the sky and the sky. In the story of the pavilions in the village, the gods are in the clouds. They look down on the clouds to see what the world is doing. From my grandfather and uncle’s chat, I know the mountain is over the sea, the sea there is a Taiwan Island over there, the third grandfather may be on that island. When we asked why he did not come back and we did not go to him, the elders sigh long, and even the birds can not fly, probably only the clouds can float over. Cloud, or cloud, the cloud above is not living in the gods, the clouds under Taiwan is not my grandfather, he is often looked up at the cloud, think of his own small village.