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On a special occasion, a
long-closed door opens. I don't remember much what was inside. Everything
has changed and is changing, yet seems the same. I might have known there was
a river then, but I had never been there. Today, it's the first time I walk
on the riverside.
A few middle-aged men set their
fish hooks in the motionless water, waiting. An old woman dozes off against
flowering loofah vines, her palm-leaf fan loosely held touching the ground.
From a newly built pavilion, comes Chinese opera, zhi
zhi ya ya, accompanied by Chinese violin, while a loan
duckling floats aimlessly on the water surface. It's been hot, but no rain.
Along the river, planted everywhere are roses, black-eyed susans, even clovers like those wild ones in the
States. The fine hair of silk trees' pinkish flowers could be easily blown
away by a gentle breath. No one could possibly ignore Japanese bananas'
bright yellow flower heads. Pomegranate trees are blooming too, showing off
their charming red flowers. I don't feel about them either - they have
never had anything to do with me.
Maybe I should visit that small
river running through that small village. I seem to have more memories
there: once my mom spotted a big fish; the villagers caught and sold it on
the farmers market. I didn't get to see it - I was in school that day.
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