The old house in my hometown (first published in Anhui Youth Daily)

As the Mid-Autumn Festival approached, it was another sleepless night, with the bright moonlight beating on the sleepless window lattice, shining on the head of the bed like a gauze, sprinkling broken honeysuckle. Cool breeze, thoughts lightly, time is like a beautiful woman, leaving in a huff, leaving only the nostalgia of rain.

The next day, I came to my hometown where I had been away for many days. In September, white clouds blossomed in the sky, leisurely away, fragrant grass waning, Rong Hua pale.

The lonely old house rustled in the arms of the bamboo grove, the graying mother sat on the threshold to mend her clothes, the chickens and dogs barked in front of the door, and the little magpies were chirping on the tall neem tree. A row of fiery red cockscomb in the front yard is like a small fan, in the green narrow leaves set off, with brilliant sunshine, shining, very beautiful.

A childhood call from my mother brought me back to the old house. The "bird's nest" on the wall of the old house is still vivid, but there are many yellow traces of cobwebs and leaks in the rainy days on the walls, which are mercilessly engraved with the vicissitudes of time; the portrait of my father is placed in the middle of the hall, and now there is only my mother alone in the old house. Looking at her bent back, I can't help but burst into tears and walk to the bamboo forest behind the house.

This bamboo forest carries many stories of childhood. This is where I slept in my cradle when I was a child, listening to my mother sing a gentle lullaby, watching my handy father weave a bamboo basket, playing hide-and-seek and hamster with my friends, dancing in the wind with a home-made windmill, lying on the ground, eavesdropping on birds.

Today, it is still so lush, some straight and straight, straight to the sky; some seem to be old and tired. A few little yellow hummingbirds drilled about in the bamboo forest, calling friends and occasionally showing off their crisp throats. When the old hens on the ground were full, they walked leisurely back and forth; on the branch of the peach tree stood a big golden rooster, stretching its neck and shouting "Wow".

Walking into the bamboo grove, standing on the bank of the river, staring at the river facing north, the trees on both sides are covered with green trees, the river is as green as emerald, and the breeze blows like wrinkled green silk. The red fruit from the old bark tree stretching out to the surface of the water fell, causing ripples on the river, and the halo spread slowly, attracting a large number of small fish fighting for it, and the river suddenly became lively. They chase, play, jump, stir up a lot of spray. When I was a child, I used to swim, fish, pick water chestnuts, swim in the water and walk on ice.

The old house is still the same, things have changed, the beautiful scenery like a boat carrying a strong affection, sailed into the depths of my gurgle of heart.