That Year, That Month, Those People and Things

The chirping of cicadas breaks through the summer heat wave, the red bricks are worn into thin cocoons in the rough palms, and the laughter in the earthen yard floats to the horizon mixed with the smell of mortar. The days at that time were like unglazed pottery bowls, simple but full of fireworks. Looking back many years later, I found that the figures bending down to lay bricks, the children running away, and the figures standing leaning against the door had already been embedded in the cracks of the bricks of time, becoming a piece of time that could never be dismantled.