Farewell to the Sky

In the spring of the 26th year of the Republic of China, the sky was filled with sycamore catkins in Jinling City. A girl wearing an indanthrene blue cloth cheongsam put an apricot-yellow sachet into the hand of a pilot under the sweet-scented osmanthus tree on Yihe Road. She said it was of no use, just put it next to the pillow to soothe her nerves. She said the lotus heart was too bitter. But she is not afraid of hardship. Later, there was no way back to that city. Those people can't come back either. The plane shattered into meteors in the sky, the letter was separated on the way, the paper swallows were folded and unpacked, unpacked and folded again, a bowl of lotus heart soup was cooked from Jinling to Kunming, and from Kunming to New York. After it was left to cool, no one could wait to drink it. Two women, forty years apart, held each other's hands in the snow. They say there is no use in hating. Remember it is useful. I remember, they were still there. There was an unknown bird outside the window. It called once, stopped, and then called again. This era is too quiet, as quiet as a tomb. But that cry shouted out for all those who could not make a sound. Even if it's just a sound. Even if no one hears it. Even after calling, there was nothing left. But it barked. That's enough.