Those who used to go to school when looking at phoenix flowers will evoke the most memories. Flowers in the school yard, flowers in the aisles, flowers pressed in notebook pages to keep the hot summer. The School of Political Officers located in our old citadel is always shady with green trees.
But having an old phoenix tree probably left many impressions on generations of students. That phoenix tree stands sideways to the exit of the ancient city gate, next to it is a mossy brick wall. In most of the frames taken on the side of the ancient citadel, perhaps the space around the phoenix root is the most characteristic and recognizable. Therefore, the phoenix tree becomes a familiar image in the eyes of every person.
The summer sun is brilliant, the phoenix shape is tilted, the body is moldy and callous. The ancient citadel, the old gate, the old monument, the old phoenix root, all seem to want to gather to whisper to them what belongs to a distant time. The cast-iron citadel imprinted with traces of time is a witness of a bygone era. For now, the citadel becomes a place to welcome generations of students to come here to practice. In the middle of that quiet old space, there is still something that is silently changing. From the thin, thin branches, green sprouts rise up. That green color revives a deep and quiet space. Thousands of delicate leaf spots weave together to create a cool green color to the eyes. The blazing sun urges the phoenix to call summer. Until one day the old phoenix tree suddenly glowed red. That’s when the exam draws near. Nights with lights on by the small doorway, summer afternoons reviewing lessons under the trees. The sound of cicadas tinkling red phoenix flowers makes the heart more excited. The road leading to the familiar lecture hall was covered with red corpses. The wind gently swept the fragile phoenix wings flying in the air. In the line of troops walking under the phoenix’s shadow, there were petals falling gently on the red and gold-rimmed shoulders. That red color blends together to weave into student memories. It was the last summer we studied under the officer’s roof. Graduation exam is approaching, teammates are hard at work together. With a bit of leisure, I walked around the school, stood under the phoenix tree and picked up fallen petals. The cicada slightly tilted its head and flapped its wings in a hurry to catch the rhythm of the song. After the hard exam, the graduates are honored to carry on their shoulders the sparkling gold star badge. When the phoenix flower was over, it was time for us to part. From the roof of this school, young officers spread everywhere, each with a unit, a new horizon. Only the old phoenix shape with crimson flowers at the school gate will probably remain forever. We graduated from school with that year’s phoenix season so that every summer, we would sob with the falling color of the phoenix, the roof of the ancient citadel, and our comrades-in-arms.
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