Published: May 31, 2025
爷爷的脚步，沉重如暮色，
踏响他心底压抑的风声。
他长长叹息——
“我想回唐山，
回那座父母曾在的老屋。”
他呢喃着，
无人应答，
屋外的椰树也静默。
奶奶坐在那张断了扶手的旧椅上，
拐杖早已嵌入她娇小的身形，
蓝衫黑裤，成了她一生的颜色。
我用不流利的福建话稚气地问：
“阿嬷，为什么不换些别的颜色？”
她笑了，
笑得像风吹过屋外的椰树——
不言不语。
许多年后，我重返童年的故居，
只觉屋檐低了、墙角旧了，
一切仿佛都缩小了。
我四顾茫然， 才恍然，
原来是我长大了！
如屋外的椰树，
岁月未动，如旧无声。
孩提时的笑声轻轻在耳畔回响，
仿佛当年在爷爷奶奶心底飘过的风声。
这座老屋，始终没有
还给他们一个答案，
只有一罗罗未了的心愿，
锁在岁月的深处——
静默的回声
有声，亦无声。
Grandfather’s footsteps, heavy as twilight,
echoed the repressed wind within his heart.
He sighed deeply—
“I want to return to Tangshan,
to that old house where my parents once lived.”
He murmured,
but received no reply,
even the coconut trees outside stood silent.
Grandmother sat on that old chair with a broken armrest,
her cane long fused into her petite frame.
Blue blouse and black pants became the colors of her lifetime.
In inarticulate Hokkien, I childishly asked:
“Ah Ma (Grandma), why not wear some other colors?”
She smiled,
a smile like the wind brushing through the coconut trees outside —silent, wordless.
Years later, I returned to my childhood home,
only to find the eaves lower, the corners worn and older,
as if everything had shrunk.
I looked around, bewildered, only to realize —
I had grown up!
Like the coconut trees outside,
time stood, still and voiceless ever.
The laughter of childhood lightly echoed in my ears,
like the winds that once drifted through Grandpa and Grandma’s hearts.
This old house never
gave them an answer,
only left behind a heap of unfulfilled wishes,
locked in the depths of time —
a silent echo
that tells, and untells.
16.05.2025
