The scented lilies

Spring, with sunshine and flowers, once again visited my stationed area. The spring flowers not far away, from a distance, like the stars in the vast night sky, shining brightly; close up, the small sunflower look, shining in the sunlight, shining brightly. As the temperature rises, there are more elderly people at the entrance of the subway, sitting or standing, basking in the sun and chatting.

For me on patrol, these old people are a daily companion. On several occasions, passengers walking in a hurry forgot to unplug their electric car keys, and these old people saw them and unplugged them directly, knocking all the way to the police room door to tell me.

The subway stationed area of the vegetable market is very close to the exit, the community residents and many passengers here to buy food. These grandparents carry a small, lightweight matzah with them, and after buying vegetables, sit at the subway entrance to peel beans and choose vegetables. They always ask the vegetable sellers for a few more plastic bags to hold their garbage.

Once, a grandpa left his keys at home, so as not to disturb his children at work, he chatted with the elderly at the entrance of the subway. By noon when he was the only one left, I realized that things were not good. He told me the truth, but insisted not to tell me his son or daughter's phone number. I had to invite him to come to the police office to eat microwave dumplings together. After eating the dumplings, at the exit, he helped me to arrange all the electric cars neatly. In the evening, he left quietly. The next day, the door of the police room would be placed with gifts left by the elderly in return, such as a box of milk, an apple, a hot white gi bun, etc.

The entrance to the police room became a place for the elderly to temporarily store their things, often placing small items such as keys, backpacks, red scarves and school bags for elementary school students. Occasionally, passengers shared their fruits with me, apples, oranges, bananas. The older women danced in two teams while the older men sat and watched. One older woman planted vegetables in the open space at the entrance of the subway, a modest garden with lush beds and green leaves, a greenery seen from a great distance.

I remember last winter, she gave me a bag of coriander with bright green leaves. This spring, she never came back. The grandparents said that she left years ago. Looking at the untended vegetable garden, I became silent. I remember every time I went back from work, my mother shouted at me from afar to go to the vegetable garden to pick vegetables. The children are not around, the vegetables can not be eaten, try to give me. For them, the vegetable patch became a kind of emotional support, a kind of remembrance of the old life. The most memorable part was last year's winter solstice, when the aunties gave me handmade dumplings and I took them on a tour of some of the firefighting facilities in the police station.

They became friends who sunbathed and cooled off at the subway entrance, which is a scene at the entrance of the subway. From time to time, I chatted with them while on patrol.

Once, a young man drove up to the curb, pulled open the door, helped the mother, and said, "Go ahead, I'll pick you up at noon. She happily didn't even look back. The old friends gathered together, happy as can be. They talk about many things, such as the concept of young people getting married, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law relationships, young grandchildren learning, and so on.

After a weekend, the police room door surprisingly put two red lilies, a touch, the bottom is the bottle, thinking that the passengers are temporarily stored, and did not care. Until the end of the day, there is still no one to take.

This unexpected flowers, let people elusive. I changed out of my police uniform and sniffed the fragrance emanating from the flowers and couldn't help but be curious. Just about to close the door, found a kraft paper envelope under the door, open it, inside is a neatly written letter: "Hello, officer, remember that sudden rainstorm? I was in your station area to take shelter from the rain. I came here that time to take my children to visit the former residence of Wei Wei. We were from the provinces and had no family here. When the water on the ground raged up, the child cried in fear, and you were the one who let us stay in the police room. Later, when the station area was closed, you were the one who took us to escape from this station area that was almost backed up by water. You didn't hesitate to carry my child on your back, and several of us stumbled and followed you through the water to the Innovation Street School on Bauhinia Road. The teachers who received us cared for us like elders, arranging us into classrooms and bringing us water, instant noodles, and cell phone chargers. I remember clearly that my son and I were especially scared when we were in the second floor classroom, looking at the school playground in a sea of water. An older teacher, who was called Mr. Xu, came forward to comfort us and brought us quilts and so on. That night was memorable for life. I am also an educator and felt that there is true love everywhere on earth during this rainstorm. So, please accept my flowers. Xi'an Lianhu suburbanites."

I quickly flipped through the surveillance video, and in the crowd of people coming and going, I found a lady wearing an orange mask, shawl hair, shoulder backpack, carrying flowers in her arms, first knocking on the door, then writing on the fire hydrant, and finally placing the flowers at the door. The flowers occupied my entire view, and a scene before my eyes reappeared as if it were yesterday, making people feel warm.

The fragrant lilies were put in the police room for two days, but still fresh as ever. This unexpected flower, in the subway stationed area, added warmth and smiles to me and to the passengers who were in a hurry.