Mountain Road into Memory
On the winding road to the Black Mountain town, the car tilted gently with each curve, as if time itself swayed along. Outside the window, sunlight flickered through the trees, and their shadows swept past frame by frame—like an old film running in reverse, slowly drawing us back into those yellowed pages of the past.
Inside the car, it was quiet. Only the wind brushed softly against the glass. I turned to look at my sister—her head tilted, cheek resting near the windowpane, eyes following the flickering trees and the distant rise and fall of hills.
Suddenly, she began to speak of our childhood in Guangyuan. The stream was shallow then; she’d roll up her pant legs to wade in and catch fish. The rocks were slippery, the sunlight warm. After school, wildflowers would peek shyly through the grass. She’d pluck them one by one and press them between her textbooks. The petals dried, but the fragrance stayed. As she spoke, she smiled, as if flipping through an old photo album lit with silver light.
I watched her. Her voice was clear and quick like a stream over smooth stone.
Mountain path winding
gently rocking time and thoughts—
a toon tree in bloom
She spoke with delight, and I listened, entranced. The sunlight fell across her lashes, quivering like bits of silver. Neither of us had expected it—but some memories don’t need to be sought. They hide in a mountain curve, in a summer afternoon, and quietly return when we least expect.
Childhood runs beneath
shifting shade and whispering trees—
a fish leaps inside
