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By Rosa CandidoPublished about a year ago 5 min read

In any case, that little garden is the brightest spot in our house. Although it's not, at least not just that.

Whenever home appears in my memory like a concept, its color is deep.

The ones my grandfather built when he was young are grayish blue and brown. I was raised in this kind of stability and loneliness. Primrose blooms are good against this background. It doesn't need to be so powdered. Although primrose is very rare in our country, perhaps not, unlike Kunming.

The great-grandparent's was almost black, a kind of black (don't say green) under the eye and filled with shadows. These shadows were enough to make the flowers laid before the shrine disappear. When the lamp is lit at night, it often seems to us that the great pillars of grey cloth and lacquer stretch out to an infinite height. There was always a cage in the tabernacle, and I believe there is one still. That green crotch is forever squinting (he seems too small for a philosopher, I think). Only the time will be finished. It will sing for a while, take a bath, shake off a mist in the sunset shadow stretching into the gallery for a moment.

When it rains, all colors become blue, the roofs, the walls, the patterns of the paper on the walls, even the doves: turquoise, tile ash, dots, chardonnay. This is when the benefits of gem eyes become apparent. So we waited for the doves to sing in their single voice in our own garden. Waiting for a elm tree to touch, drop the broken petals, waiting for the recolor grass.

If my face from childhood brought red, it is the source of the garden.

My memory smells like calamus. But we have no calamus in our garden? Where does it come from? What kind of grass is it? This is an insoluble problem. But I'm putting them together for no reason.

"Bagengrass, green grass, sing a song, listen to the dog." Every kid sings like that. Sometimes, doing nothing, I lay on my back, wrapping my fingers around its roots and pulling with an inconspicuous force, listening as the stubborn whiskers broke off one by one. It's a sound that only the person pulling the grass can hear. Of course I had a piece of grass in my mouth. The sweetness of the root and its watery red color are a natural coincidence.

The grass was pushed down. Sometimes my head moves and the grass slowly rises again. I quietly watch it, for a long time, to see its efforts to succeed, and put the head up, mouth called a "um"! Sometimes, don't care, pity its pains, even if. What a character! The grass will sometimes frighten me, it is in my ear, when I look at the clouds in the sky.

The soles of my shoes were slippery and shiny with grass.

Don't touch the smelly sesame seeds, stick to a suit, why, smell dead. Get on it. Don't pick it up with your fingers. Brush with a brush. This seed has crocheted hair, which is annoying. So far, I can't forget it: because I was in a hurry to catch the "Duliu" (a kind of cicada, called the best), I held up my net, tiptoe, take a short cut, follow its voice to find, clap, ok. But back there, I'm covered in that shit. Think of all the "Dukes" I've caught!

I think tiger ear grass has a fishy smell.

The red on the Perilla leaves ah, the summer vacation is passing.

There were often longoxen on the great weeping willow, sometimes more often in one or two. They always seemed to have a job to do, and all six feet were in constant motion, and sometimes they stopped, and what moved were two jointed tentacles. We think the longox is one year old when it has one section of its tentacle. To catch a longhorn by hand is not how difficult it is to work, even if it turns around in the branches, you wait for a suitable spot to start. The neck is often tired, but the disappointment is rare. The little creature had all the composure of an educated gentleman, and though he had wings, never thought of flying; Even by flying, it's not far. As soon as he was caught, he squeaked and twitched his disapproval, but his behaviour remained gentle. Black and white spot longicorn most, also has a very magnificent color. There's one that seems to have a bit of a rose scent. The game of the Longox is to watch it go with a string buckle around its neck. Bring to mind... It is better not to say.

Crickets have become adult toys. But adults are interested in fighting, and we are probably more interested in catching crickets. I have read a book of autumn insects. Besides Su Dongpo Minan Palace, there are many sayings of Jidian monk, which are miraculous and difficult to understand. When I catch a cricket, I cannot tell whether the fine hair on its neck is tile green or vermilion, and whether its teeth are rice or vegetable, but I am still so happy. Listen, where? Here it is, here it is! With grass, hand, water, ho, jumped out. Regardless of the snail snail vine pull hand, pounce, chase pounce. Sometimes when I was playing outside, I suddenly remembered that my cricket had not been fed, so I hurried home. Every time I eat a pear, a lotus root, eat pomegranate eat Ling, to give it a little. While I was eating dinner, my cricket chirped. I would hold chopsticks to listen for a long time, after listening to his father smiled, very proud. One catches crickets, and the whole garden has to be turned over. I'm afraid of finding a squiggly slug. But my cousin has plenty of ways, sprinkle a little salt, immediately it into a puddle of water.

Some cicadas cannot chirp. We call them dumb. To catch a mute is worse than to catch a matchmaker. But there's a way to play dumb. With two purslane valve set up its eyes, it is just appropriate, as if purslane valve born for this use to grow into such a small pocket, a let go, mute has been up to fly, never deflection turn.

The dragonfly settled down one by one, and it was getting late. There is an iron - colored dragonfly with narrow wings, called "ghost dragonfly". Seeing it flying in the corner flower shade, I do not know what reason, my heart has a kind of unspeakable sad.


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