When the fragrance of locust blossoms drifted through the classroom windows in late spring, students would roll their uniform sleeves up an extra couple of folds. That way, the tan lines from the season could be hidden completely in the shade. A sheepskin notebook lay open, a fountain pen tracing annotations in Notes on the Twenty-Four Solar Terms. The ink bled across the words "Zhuming," resembling the sunset outside, on the verge of fading but not quite gone.
"The locust tree's name means remembrance..." Youth suddenly chimed in with a singsong lilt, a smear of red dirt from the volleyball court still on the collar of their tracksuit. An impulsive fingertip skimmed the yellowed page, stirring a few motes of dust to dance in the slanting sunlight. Laughter suddenly erupted at the back door. Several boys were crowding around the newly posted exam rankings, making a scene. In the glass window, someone's lashes suddenly lowered.
On this campus, etched by the rings of ancient locust trees, everyone's youth bore its own unique creases. Skirts were always pressed as smooth as piano keys, while plant specimens tucked away in backpack pockets quietly nurtured the courage to break through frozen soil, in a corner no one knew about.
The instant the dean rang the bell for evening study, the light and shadows of seventeen-year-olds froze into an eternal montage in the chalk dust. When the cicada shell finally broke free of the chinaberry branch, the youths suddenly realized: youth had never been a one-person play. Those seemingly parallel paths of growing up had long ago, on some unremarkable afternoon, been woven into the warp and weft of fate by the secret fragrance of locust blossoms.
