The setting sun brews a tinge of drunken red, as if time
carries capsules of memories from across the shore.
The evening air, freshly cooled by the rain, feels pleasant as I walk by the
green wheat field. The scent of flowers and the rich aroma of the land fill
the flowing breeze.
As I make my way home, I look up to see the rose-red sun hanging in the sky,
dyeing half of the sky red. Sparrows chirp overhead, as if warning me of
getting scolded for coming home late.
Nearby, a few farmers bump into each other while carrying their tools,
laughing heartily. Their laughter has a magical power, easily dispelling any
worries from my mind.
The sun sets slowly, and I quicken my pace towards home. Smoke rises from
chimneys, accompanied by the sound of children's laughter. I imagine
families gathering together, parents who have returned from the fields,
mothers cooking dinner, and children coming home from school, all talking
and laughing. This is the happiness in the ordinary.
As I enter my grandparents' home, the familiar smell of home comforts me.
Home is a place where you are sheltered from the wind and rain, where you
won't regret walking, and where you can always retreat. It is the last
peaceful haven for everyone.
The night falls, and the village quiets down. The moonlight illuminates the
front porch, and I bask in the atmosphere of my long-missed home. The
stillness of my mind resembles a calm lake.
As the night grows deeper, the lights in the windows extinguish one by one,
and occasional distant barking fades away. The thick darkness of the night
covers the snores and murmurs of the villagers. And I, too, fall into a deep
slumber.
The road home has become an indelible memory, not only for its tranquility
but also for its end, which is home. |