The Branches Have a Sound

[Happiness for the whole family | Firework cookies | From three meals for two to a family of four, every frame is full of passionate love] The first time I met Song Moheng, he was wearing a pressed white shirt, holding a law stick in his hand, standing in front of the coriander field I had just turned, as if he was here to file a lawsuit. "Private reclamation is prohibited in the green belt. According to regulations..." "When it grows out, I'll give you half of it!" I squatted in the mud and raised my head, raising my soil-covered fingers in front of his eyes, "It's fresh, can be mixed with cold dishes, and is ten times more fragrant than the ones in the supermarket." He frowned as if he was reviewing a contract full of loopholes, but three seconds later he took out his mobile phone from the inner pocket of his suit: "WeChat." "?" "Contact me when you're mature." He scanned the QR code and turned around. His steps were steady but his ears were a little red. "Don't let me complain to the property without even smelling coriander." Later, he always said that he was not bribed by coriander that day, but that he saw me squatting in the sun and planting the lawn in the community into my own vegetable garden, like a prairie dog hiding food-it was so stupid that it made people laugh. And I saved his WeChat account with the note "cilantro monitor". Little did I know at that time that this coriander that almost caused a neighborhood dispute would one day grow vines and entangle two adults, and even two little kids would hug our legs and yell, "I want to eat the coriander my mother grew." Some people say that everything becomes the same after a long time, but my family is different. The pots and pans are filled with sweetness, the trivial and garlicky piles are filled with warmth, and even the biscuits are full of coriander-flavored fireworks. Love is never about finding a perfect person, but about living a uniquely sweet life with that noisy person.