回忆是风筝,以为它已走远,可是它始终盘旋在天边,因为你手中的线。当时我是在七月的艳阳中随母亲回到老家的。走近那幢小木屋,自觉便如深海中的鱼那般压抑,冰凉的气息侵蚀了手脚。我看见母亲的侧脸:她干涸的唇紧闭着,没有吱声,因为屋子里的黑白照片。照片里她六年不见的人,此刻正对她展开笑颜。我披上白色的孝服,听见身后陌生人悲怆而尖利的哭声,如浪潮般淹没我。我下意识看了看她,作为女儿的她,竟没为自己的母亲流一滴泪, Memories of a kite, thinking it has gone far, but it is always hovering in the horizon, because of the line in your hand. At that time I was back home with my mother in the sun in July. Approached the log cabin, consciously as deep as fish in the sea so depressed, cold atmosphere eroded hands and feet. I saw her mother’s face: her dry lips were closed, no squeaking, because of black and white photographs of the room. She was missing in six years in the photo and was now smiling at her. I put on white filial piety, I heard strangers grieved and sharp cries behind, such as the tide-like submerged me. I subconsciously looked at her, as her daughter, did not shed tears for her mother,