Ask Zhang Xiaofeng or Xi Murong for 3 essays plus about 200 words of comments and appreciation

The above de facto yes in fact.

A hometown that I haven't seen before.

What haunts our generation is nothing more than rootless memories, boundless. Sometimes it's a raging undercurrent that suddenly rushes at you and leaves you overwhelmed. Sometimes it comes ethereal and ties a knot in your heart.

You can't find this knot in **, and you don't know for what reason, and you don't know which person it's for.

Three years ago, I spent a summer in Switzerland and met several local friends who used to hike mountains together. One day, one of the boys invited us to his house to play. His house is located on a hillside with a large orchard, and from the back door, you can see a deep lake surrounded by a large grove of trees under the back hill.

The boy pointed to a large cherry tree outside the wall of his yard and said

Do you see the fifth branch on the left from below? That skill is very crooked, do you see? It was when my father was seven years old, and he climbed up the tree to pick cherries, and it was also this summer, and my grandfather saw it, and punished him for sitting on that branch for an afternoon, and he was not allowed to come down.

The branch was crooked ever since. ”

Maybe he was bluffing me, maybe his father was bluffing him. But his attachment to home, his nostalgia for his childhood, and his denial of the passage of time can all be satisfied by this big tree, or even from a crooked branch of this big tree. Therefore, he even spoke with a little pride.

And me? Do I show him my slippers? I might be able to sing him that song, but does he understand it?

Even if he finally understood, would that amount be worth the behemoth planted by his great-grandmother right in front of him? Can he stand up to the land on which he is born?

And the more I miss my hometown, which I have never seen before.

When I was a child, my favorite thing was to listen to my father talk about the scenery of his hometown. On winter evenings, several people sat around, pestering my father to tell stories over and over again that happened beyond the Great Wall. Our children were born in the South, but the blood of the land we have never seen before is still in us.

Relying on the stories of my ancestors told by my father, relying on the desert scenery that we were surprised to discover in some magazines, and relying on the annual ancestor sacrifice, I accumulated bit by bit, piece by piece, and my lovely hometown slowly took shape. And my childhood relied on this patchwork warmth to grow up slowly.

A flowering tree, I saw a lot, nostalgia

Traces of growth, sorghum dreams, swallows.

Draw the rainbow in your heart.

Write to happiness.

Written to life.

A home under the maple tree.

Transparent grief.

Traces of growth.

Transparent sorrow, chasing the land of dreams.

A flowering tree in the first life, you are the ancient temple, I am the green light; In that life, you were the falling flowers, and I was the embroidered girl; In that life, you are Qingshi, and I am Yueyaer;