The articles are like dewdrops in late autumn, condensing the deepest feelings in the world with clear brushstrokes. In the fragrance of rice wafting in the ward, in the trembling sound of firecrackers at the end of the year, and in the morning light when the mother stared at the coffin, one can feel the lines of blood flowing through the years. For example, the stream of flying golden beetles is used to string together the bead chain of time, so that the tenderness of the sister is forever fixed in the moment of dancing tree shadows in childhood; when the mother mistakenly puts the hot tea for the Buddha in the refrigerator, this is more heart-shaking than any cry - the heavy hammer of fate often strikes in the simplest folds of life. Aren't those missed reunions in the ward the epitome of every ordinary person facing impermanence? We always see the eternity of love in the gaps of regret. What flows in the text is not only nostalgia, but also a tribute to the resilience of life. The warm meals delivered by the nurse, the choked sobs of the father when killing the New Year pig, and the fluttering eyelashes of his wife and daughter while they were sleeping all tell how the dim light in the dark night illuminates the world. The way I turn my thoughts into words is just like the golden beetle my sister caught in the treetops. It reflects the colorful halo in the sun, allowing eternity to stay in the brilliance of the moment.
Intent: to connect memories through past events and calmly express longing for my sister.