Touch the sound of rain

The showers not only extinguished the wild sunshine of summer, but also held the hurried cycle of urban life in the streets slowing down a beat. We have an excuse to slack off, an excuse to be nostalgic, an excuse to be weak. Each rain finger taps on the street roof as if to tell stories of the old days. Those are the memories that seemed to have settled into a quiet private corner, suddenly waking up with the silver rain spreading into endless memory trails.

Touching the sound of the small rain outside the eaves, sobbing, remembering the distant childhood days. Round raindrops reflect the father’s low legs, carrying all the pots and pans to catch the leaking thatched roofs; The sound of the mother’s lullaby shivering from the cold, the thin arms embracing the child’s dream… Loving the mother’s bare feet bleeding when running, loving each wrinkle on the father’s forehead imprinted with the flash of lightning in the East… Everyone’s youth is like summer. But showers often come suddenly without warning. Therefore, the youth never gets wet a few times. The trembling hand held by the phoenix root on the day of parting, until now the warmth is still lingering. Bewilderedly watching the white ao dai disappear into the wedge-like stream of people, the back of my bicycle was only full of rain. The green promise hidden in the bag, do you remember or have you forgotten? Randomly meeting again, aimlessly calling the rain that year, people laughing, reminding them of children’s stories. At the end of the day, the showers filled the city with sighs. At the corner of the street, a hawker stood nestled on the porch of a house. Her eyes were immense as she looked at the white rain, the shriveled load lying in the old basket. Someone pumped a car quietly sitting on their knees at the foot of the overpass while the wind whistled overhead. The thin raincoat could not hide the bruised lips that were trembling from the cold. There was a woman with a hat on her back, riding a bicycle to turn a gray storm, guarding the three stations with all sorts of plastic bottles, cardboard, scrap aluminum. Any rain will stop. A fierce storm will return peace. Woke up this morning, the rain that had been pouring down all night washed away a clear morning. It’s been a long time since a child far from home has been able to breathe in the steamy smell of earth. The screams of the hawkers and the clattering footsteps seemed to be busier than usual. Sipping hot coffee, mumbling a few unlucky verses: “Rain connects heaven and earth. Rain connects me to me…”.