童年的记忆 Childhood Memories
There is a certain hour, often in the hush before evening, when memory unfolds like the petals of a flower you once loved as a child. In that gentle light, the old garden of my childhood returns to me—not preserved in flawless detail, but alive in feeling, in fragments of color and scent that linger after so many years.
The garden was neither grand nor orderly; time had softened its edges and tangled its borders. Wild roses climbed the weathered fence, their blooms shy and unexpected. Beneath a crooked apple tree, moss crept between the roots, soft as velvet, where I would sometimes sit and watch sunlight sift through the leaves in quiet, golden streams.
In spring, the air was sweet with lilac and new grass. I remember how the path—a ribbon of worn bricks, half-buried under violets—would lead me past low hedges and sleepy patches of mint. Bees went about their unhurried work, and the breeze carried the gentle chorus of distant birdsong and the lazy hum of summer afternoons.
Every season brought its own small miracles. Autumn draped the grapevine in its richest purple, and figs hung warm and heavy in the hush of September days. Even in winter, when only the bones of branches remained, frost adorned every leaf and gate in silver, and the garden seemed to sleep, but always with the promise of awakening.
Yet what endures most is not the catalog of flowers or the way the air shimmered at dusk, but the sense of belonging, of quiet sanctuary. The garden, in all its imperfection, was a place where time slowed—where wonder lived side by side with silence, where a thousand tiny happenings composed the music of a single afternoon.
Now, years gone by, I find that the old garden grows in me still. In moments of reflection, I return to its peace, tasting again the sweetness of lost summers, the hush of green shade, the trust that something beautiful waits just beyond the next turning of the season.
总在黄昏将临的静默时分，记忆如儿时珍爱的花朵般舒展。柔光中，童年那座旧花园又浮现在眼前——不是纤毫毕现的标本，而是鲜活在色彩与气息的碎片里，历经岁月犹未消散。
那园子既不规整也不气派，时光磨钝了它的棱角，任草木在边界肆意蔓生。野蔷薇攀上斑驳的篱笆，花朵开得羞怯又偶然。歪脖苹果树下，苔藓如天鹅绒铺满树根，我常坐在那里，看阳光滤过叶隙，淌成静谧的金色溪流。
春日里，空气浸透丁香与新草的甜香。记得那条小径——砖石半掩在紫罗兰下，像磨旧的缎带——引我穿过矮树丛与昏睡的薄荷地。蜜蜂从容采蜜，微风捎来远处鸟鸣与夏日午后的慵懒嗡响。
四季各有神迹：秋日给葡萄藤披上最浓烈的紫袍，无花果在九月的静默中沉甸甸低垂。即便寒冬褪尽枝叶，冰霜也会为每片枯叶、每扇栅栏缀上银饰，园子看似沉睡，却永远暗涌着重生的诺言。
但最难忘的并非花事记载或暮光浮动的模样，而是那种归属感，那种宁静的庇护。这座不完美的园子，是让时光放缓的所在——惊奇与寂静比邻而居，万千微末动静谱成某个午后的乐章。
如今岁月流转，我发觉故园仍在心间生长。沉思时便重返那片安宁，再度品尝逝去夏日的甘美、绿荫里的静默，以及那份笃信：在季节的下个转角，总有美好静候。
