That year, I was eighteen years old.

I was eighteen that year. Black oily hair always likes to braid two braids. Tie a bow tie with a red ribbon to the end of the braid, or tilt your hair to the side and tie a ponytail in front of your shoulders, and your hair will dangle rhythmically as you walk.

Eighteen years old, when he sees the rain falling, he will be sad, he will see flowers blooming, and he will smile.

Eighteen years old, with the current eyes, carefree, youthful and beautiful. Eighteen years old, the age of flowers, always longing for some illusory beauty.

Eighteen-year-old story, hazy and kind. Occasionally sitting at the desk, flipping through a favorite book, always thinking about those years, those things, those swaying shadows of youth.

At the age of eighteen, the school he attended was located in the center of the town, and the water of the Sha river from west to east was crystal clear, and next to the river, rows of green willows were either high or low, and the trees were mostly crooked. It is often seen that the sun carries the color of the sky, and the pleasing scattered flutters among the horizontal branches, if you encounter a weekend, there will always be three or five students who are far away from home who are too late to go home, take one or two favorite books and read them while walking. There are mischievous boys sitting directly on the tree and reading aloud. The reserved girl, leaning on the tree, silently read quietly. There is even a pair of small couples snuggling under the tree, looking into the distance, at this time, the birds and finches are quiet, quiet only a young heart unexpectedly met, imagining the future. That figure will always attract passers-by, envious eyes, the child's world is so beautiful!

Tired of reading, three or five friends, directly take off their shoes, go to the water, fine sand across the instep of the foot, rush into the toe slit, crisp and itchy. Occasionally, there are small fish dangling in front of the eyes, so when the hands are folded and the fish are caught, the clever little fish can become something in the hands of others, and there is no trace. A group of girls giggled, their hearty voices floating along the river. The one who laughed the most proudly would surely become the target of his companion's attack, so a string of water splashes immediately splashed, and before he could react, there were already scattered drops of water on his body. In the years of youth, whoever has it will be the one who is willing to fall behind, so you chase after me and forget the image of a lady. Where else would you care if your pants are wet, or even full of mud and sand?

On the riverbank, the white pebbles are the best stools, clean and breathing warm. A group of people, discussing the learning, talking about how so-and-so students in the class are, and so-and-so teachers are handsome to the extreme. In every young heart, there may be a trace that is no better than what people see, quietly crossing the space of the soul and staying in the mouth of a bottle.

At that time, the school's accommodation seemed to be in short supply, and the students who reported late only rented private houses outside the school, and the price of the house was not high compared with now, but at that time, it was already a difficult thing for parents, mostly two or three classmates sharing a room, so that they could reduce some costs.

In my memory, most of my classmates used kerosene stoves to cook, clean and safe. At that time, induction cookers, rice cookers and the like were rare. The price of kerosene is only in two cents a pound, from the rice noodles brought by the family, a small pot, a bottle of spicy sauce, two pairs of chopsticks, two bowls, simple life, simple learning. I, after all, am the one who has no ambitions, and I am the one I am today, and I have nothing to do. Sometimes, when life is particularly unsatisfactory, it seems that we will discover what we experience and miss in our youth.

The rented house, near the South River in the ancient city, there is a well in the landlord's courtyard, about seven or eight meters deep, every day, after school, I use a rope, one end is wrapped around the small bucket beam, watching the bucket tremble into the water, there will always be a little worry in my heart, afraid. Afraid of not pulling the rope tightly, the bucket fell into the well. In fact, such things have long been common. Living in the same building, there is a boy in my class, tall and thin, soft voice when speaking, he is shy than girls are more shy people, every time will always take the initiative to help me fetch water, in the economic conditions are not very rich in the era, parents will often send some food to their children, his hometown Xu is deeper than the mountain where I was born, there should be a lot of persimmon trees. Because he would often take out the persimmon cake that his mother had given him and let me taste it, but when I politely refused, I would always listen to him. "Why are you so ugly?" Just a little bit of food. I don't know, is the word "ugly" his colloquialism, or is it really ugly? With a hint of discomfort in my heart. The persimmon cake took over, took a bite, don't say, the taste of the cake is really good, sweet and sticky. Later, as long as he had. I can also follow suit. Blink of an eye. Three spring and autumn, in a flash, we all became the unnamed students on the list, and after graduation, everyone ran to their own things and there was no contact. The only thing I know is the address written in the book. Over time. I have long since abandoned it there. In the ignorant years, the love of a leisurely classmate can only be deeply hidden.

On that waxing moon day when there was no choice to repeat the reading. There will always be too many regrets and losses in the heart. A man walked aimlessly along the path beside the village quietly, occasionally looking up, a smiling face floating in front of him, "Good coincidence, meet on this road." "Former classmates, full of surprises between words. At that time, who dared to easily take a boy to the house. The gossip of the neighbors, the harsh rebuke of the parents. There's always going to be a little bit of a fear. So, in a few hurried words, they went their separate ways. After that chance encounter, there was no intersection in life. Until now, I think of those years, those things. What lingered between pen and ink became my own concern.

Remember, that July. Walking into the examination room, Xu is, due to the hot weather, there is inadvertently a nosebleed. He handed over the neatly folded handkerchiefs, "Say use it, it's all right." I shook my head gratefully. Anything that needs to be bought with money is a luxury for students. The friendship that is transmitted crosses the eyelashes and interprets a kind of true purity in the flow.

Now, forty years old, lifting a book in the breeze, inadvertently remembering those years, those things, those classmates, it seems, and seeing peach blossoms flying outside the window. Although the rain of flowers is drifting. But there is still a warmth that cannot be erased.

About the author: Di Qiu, real name He Chunfang. Shaanxi Luonan people, like poetry, prose. Record warmth with a pen, collect touches, listen to the heart in words, and find a peaceful sky.