Now here comes Spring, the tender wind swaying, little birds singing, yellow flowers blooming, it seems everything grows with vitality.
But have you noticed, oh, there is a hole. Where the rain pools down, where the music spreads along, where I once heard a beautiful love song. It's all about a fantasy, a dream that I won't expect again...
I close my eyes, feeling the gentleness of everything in this Spring, very well, no chilly weather, no mosquito, no noisy sounds, everything goes so well. I listen, hey, do you hear, the fluent and smooth violin, no, no, it's piano, definitely piano, what does it play. I totally have no idea. What am I expecting? That touching voice? Maybe, who knows, I don't know. Maybe I should open my eyes and hurry home, it's time to cook the diner, it's time to turn on the radio, it's time to see whether children need help. So many things around me, oh, where is that tender sound? Shall I keep waiting, or should I just go back? I literally have no idea about this. Who knows? After all, it's spring, spring is a time to sing, spring is a season to think.
I may think of that voice. Oh, what kind of voice it is, magnetic, tender, gentle, powerful, smoothing, it's the clearest spring in this Spring. When the rain falls, it's the only salvation in this little field.
While deep in my heart, I know it's never going to happen, I won't have another chance to experience the exactly same experience like before. The tenderness of the forgetful childhood has mercilessly left me alone, sinking me alone on that page. I need the courage to step out. But I can't move, I'm waiting for that sound, the saying that built a blooming spring in my heart. Should I keep waiting?
The sunrise turns into sunset, the last sunshine licking my cheek, trying to deliver something to me. But I guess I can't interpret its meaning. Because I still keep my eyes closed, I can only listen. I heard the wind slowing down its pace, the flowers laughing joyfully, the music... Gone.
I opened my eyes, oh, Spring. It's time to go back home.
I stepped forward, hearing something behind me. It's a tinny tiny voice calling for my attention. I know. I know, I understand, but I have to rush home or I'll be late. How I wish I could wait you for a little longer. But the seventh Spring let that flower withered. I only have myself to blame. I have to rush home, I need to cook, need to compose another melody, need to shoulder the responsibility to others. I have to step forward.
I know, I know, I understand, I'm no longer the free girl holding whole heart for you, the childhood has mercilessly left me alone in the wind. I tried to go back to that Spring in my teenage time, Oh, mercy! Mercy! I called so loud, birds echoed, flowers joined, we composed a tune for mercy for seven Springs.
No response, I should have understood. Now I understand. Waiting for that tune can be worthless, it's just a waste of time. Nothing works, nothing appears, nothing goes to me and tells me, "hey, I come back with your longing mercy".
Maybe it's just about the time to go back home. That home, does anything changed? Babies turned into children, they have their childhood. They will have their sound from that tender raining hole.
But in this Spring, mine's have gone.
Spring now.
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第3章 Essay One
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