This is an essay.
To put it bluntly, life is like a journey. The past is separated by the sea, and the old shadow is alone. Human memory is the most unreliable. I am always forgetting.
Back home, there are new roads, new radios, and new clothes. It's an old old house, an old washboard, and old people. Many people have passed away, and many people have been reborn.
This not-so-old village has grown old in my memory.
Old camphor trees, washboards and cattail fans.
I am still a child.