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那年,我6岁,混沌的记忆中总有蜂蜜一样粘稠得化不开的阳光,无忧无虑的人奔跑在风涌蝉鸣的盛夏。外公的手很暖,牵着我站在院子的石榴树下,他站得笔直,就像那粗糙却挺拔的树干似的。院子里那方小小的菜畦,草丛里缩头缩脑的蘑菇,昼伏夜出的蟋蟀和聒噪不休的蝉,都让我至今魂牵梦绕。菜畦旁盛放的月季像身着红裙的舞姬,一副随时准备翩翩起舞的美态。挨着月季花的褐色水缸不动声色,静立在日光下,凝视四季周而复始,时光流逝。
That year, I was 6 years old, the memory of chaos always has the same sticky as the sun of honey, carefree people running in the midsummer midsummer. My grandfather’s hand was very warm, holding me standing under the pomegranate tree in the yard, and he stood straight, like the rough but upright trunk. The small side dishes in the yard, the cursed mushrooms in the grass, the nocturnal crickets and the noisy cicadas all made me wander around. Dish beside the rose in full bloom like a red dress dancing girl, a ready to dance the beauty. Next to the rose-colored brown water tank quietly, standing in the sun, staring seasons round again, the passage of time.