There is no doubt that it is spring.

Magnolias are blooming in the yard, apricots are blooming, peaches are blooming, and plums are blooming. Some of them are all gone as if they had never bloomed before. Some of them are still hanging on the trees, like muddy teardrops on haggard eyes. And the plum blossoms were in full bloom, quietly, motionlessly, like a thousand pairs of eyes watching strangely. The people wearing masks, quietly passed by them, did not stop to admire and did not smell the refreshing fragrance, the plum blossoms do not know that the terrible coronary pneumonia virus strike.

So, this spring passed by so boringly, drearily, and silently, as if it had never come.

I certainly believe that. In the countryside, in the fields, and in the mountains, the colors of spring are all around. Although few people appreciate it. Although I don't see it either.

Those springs are always in my heart!

I remember ah, three years ago, we took our baby to the spring. The large forest of apricot blossoms, the pale branches, the trees full of apricot blossoms, the buzzing bees, the baby shouting and chasing the butterflies. The two of us were playing while you sat next to us, quietly watching us.

I remember, ah, four years ago, you went to the oldest school in Xi'an every day to accompany the students, and on weekends we took the baby to the Ba River Wetland Park, where flowers of all colors were in full bloom, and the pear trees, which were tearful beauties, had a delicate bird's nest on one of the branches. The Ba River willows, like strands of golden silk hanging down, caressed our clothes while I drove Baby on my shoulders as he struggled to reach the willow, and before we got very far, he shouted for Mom, and you hastily put away the phone that was taking pictures and said, "Baby, I'm coming!".

I remember, five years ago, we took our little one to Tanguy, and he was still afraid of not going up those steps below the reservoir, and we had to hold his hand tightly. There were a few peach trees, enchantingly blooming, and you were standing behind them, smiling happily and contentedly, wearing your brown jacket, the warm sunshine, the refreshing breeze, the mountains full of new greenery of all colors, and we strolled among them, blue sky and white clouds.

I remember ah, six years ago, the baby is still small, still living in the third sister's house, we go to see him every week. A large swath of cherry blossoms, the neighbor's big acacia tree, full of intoxicating new buds, swallows flying gently around, village children running gleefully, the smoke from the sister's cooking curling up. We watched the baby sleep sweetly, very late, we were reluctant to go home, on the way you were tired to sleep.

I remember, seven years ago, the baby was not yet born. Because of the national family planning policy, you had to hide at home. On weekends, we sneaked out and walked every concrete road in Hengling, you with your big belly, rape flowers blooming brilliantly, and bees with bulging bellies, hard and sweet. We looked for isolated field paths, the fragrance of weeds and crops, the hills full of acacia flowers in full bloom, the secluded ubiquitous sweetness, the magpie spreading its long tail in the air, and suddenly gorgeous mountain chickens were fluttering up. Once, we walked a little too remote and plucked a lot of wild garlic, that wild garlic is growing out of the garlic shoots. In that ravine, the leaves of birch-oak trees blossomed soft veins in the sunset, an old man plowed the ground with his oxen on the hillside, and we followed the people returning from grazing, a winding path where the moon had risen.

There is still further to go. How happy we were when the oldest was born, and how worried we were because of his poor health after birth. We both went together to the ravine at the bottom of my old house and plucked so many wild vegetables that I wrote an essay entitled "Spring Softness in the South Ditch", which now seems to be full of elation and joy. And we flew kites in the rape fields, idled in the peach grove of the White Lush, shouted in the woods of the cave that had just sprouted, took a boat ride in Ying Lake in Ankang ...... and so many ordinary happy have faded into the woods, and now think of it, kind and painful!

After the storm, the ground full of fallen plum blossoms, dotted with white flowers, such as snow, more like tears, I walked past with my head down, silent.