【作文】六年级春天的花作文500字：奶奶家院子里的那棵杏树

奶奶院子里的杏花开了

清明放假，爸爸开车带我回乡下。车还没停稳，我就从车窗里看见了那树杏花，白花花的一大团，高出院墙一截，像院子里冒出来的一朵大云。

推开那扇掉漆的木门，老院子还是老样子。墙根的瓦罐、靠墙的锄头、地上那圈母鸡转出来的小道，全没变。变的只有杏树——满树的花，密得看不见枝条，风一吹，地上就落一层，像刚下过一场薄雪。

奶奶在树下。她把那条三条腿的小凳摆正，坐在树荫边上晒太阳——今天有太阳，她说要晒晒骨头。她身上盖着我去年穿小的旧外套，两只手拢在袖子里，眯着眼，头一点一点的，像要打盹，又舍不得睡。

奶奶。我叫她。她睁开眼，第一句话是：回来啦，花正好，去年你走的时候它才打骨朵。我走到树下，抬头看。杏花一小朵一小朵挤在一起，花瓣薄薄的，白里透着一点粉，花心是深一点的红。有几朵开过了边，花瓣缺了一角，还是好看。一片花瓣落下来，落在我手心里，我捏着给它看：奶奶，它掉下来了。奶奶说：掉吧，掉完了就结杏子了。

我在她旁边蹲着，看她膝盖上外套的袖子，袖口磨得发亮。她的头发全白了，比上次见面时更白，有一片花瓣落在上面，卡在一绺头发里，没人看见，它自己待着。我没给她拿掉。我觉得那片花瓣待在那儿挺好。

奶奶从兜里摸出一把炒花生，硬往我手里塞，说路上肯定没吃东西。我们一个剥花生，一个看花。蜜蜂在头顶嗡嗡地来来回回，比城里公园里的胖。奶奶说这棵树是她嫁过来那年栽的，比爸爸还大。我围着树走了一圈，两个人拉手才勉强抱住。

下午太阳挪了三次地方，奶奶的小凳也跟着挪了三次。她始终在树底下。走的时候，我从后视镜里看老院子，杏树白成一团，树下坐着奶奶，小，安静，不动。

回城的路上我睡着了。梦里又是那个院子，花落一地，奶奶坐在花底下，像坐在一个守了很多年的位置上。明年清明，我还要回来看它开。

The Apricot Blossoms in Grandma's Yard

During the Qingming holiday break, dad drove me back to the countryside. Before the car even stopped, I saw the apricot tree through the window, a huge mass of white, rising a good part above the courtyard wall, like a big cloud that had sprouted inside the yard.

Pushing open the paint-chipped wooden gate, the old courtyard was just as it always was. The clay jars by the wall, the hoe leaning against it, the little path the hens had worn in the dirt, all unchanged. Only the apricot tree had changed, its branches packed with blossoms so thick you could not see a single twig. When the wind blew, the ground gathered another layer of petals, as if a thin snow had just fallen.

Grandma was under the tree. She straightened her little three-legged stool and sat at the edge of the shade to warm herself in the sun. There was sun today, she said, time to dry out her bones. She had my old coat from last year spread over her, hands tucked into the sleeves, eyes narrowed, head nodding little by little, as if about to doze off but unwilling to sleep.

Grandma, I called. She opened her eyes, and her first words were, you are back, and the flowers are at their best. When you left last year they were only buds. I walked under the tree and looked up. The apricot blossoms crowded together in small clusters, their petals thin, white touched with pink, the centers a deeper red. A few had passed their prime, petals chipped at one corner, still beautiful. One petal drifted down into my palm. I pinched it up to show her, grandma, it fell. Let it fall, she said. Once they are all gone, the apricots start growing.

I squatted beside her, looking at the sleeve over her knee, worn shiny at the cuff. Her hair was completely white, whiter than the last time I visited. A petal landed on it and lodged in one lock of hair, unnoticed by anyone, keeping itself company. I did not brush it off. I thought it was fine right where it was.

Grandma fished a handful of roasted peanuts from her pocket and pressed them into my hand, sure I had eaten nothing on the road. One of us shelled peanuts while the other watched the flowers. The bees overhead were fatter than the ones in city parks. Grandma said she planted this tree the year she married into the family, older than my father even. I walked around the trunk, and two people holding hands could barely encircle it.

In the afternoon the sun moved three times, and grandma's stool moved with it three times. She stayed under the tree the whole time. When we left, I watched the old courtyard in the rearview mirror, the apricot tree a mass of white, grandma sitting beneath it, small, quiet, still.

I fell asleep on the drive back to the city. In my dream I was in that courtyard again, petals covering the ground, grandma sitting under the blossoms, as if sitting in a place she had kept watch over for years. Next Qingming, I am coming back to see it bloom.

五月的青杏想起三月的花

五月中旬，奶奶在电话里说，杏子结了，青的，你来摘。周六一早我就到了。老院子的杏树挂满了小杏，毛茸茸的，贴着枝条一嘟噜一嘟噜。奶奶举着竹竿底下绑的铁钩，够高处那几串，我在底下拿衣兜接。

这个青，酸。我咬了一口，整张脸皱起来。奶奶笑：急什么，六月才熟。她靠着树干坐下，从兜里摸出手帕擦手，忽然说：三月它开花的时候，你没在。

我确实没在。三月底爸爸出差，妈妈值夜班，我在城里待了一个星期。奶奶讲给我听：那天早上她开门，发现一夜之间满树都开了，白里带粉，一朵挤一朵，枝条全看不见了。风大的那天，花瓣落了一地，她拿扫帚扫到树根底下，不往外扫，说让它们回去。

她还捡了一些完整的花瓣，一小撮一小撮摆在窗台的盘子里，摆成一圈。她说年纪大了，看一场花少一场，得留一点。我走的时候，那盘花瓣还在窗台上，晒得有点发白，奶奶没舍得收。

现在她坐在树下讲这些，头顶就是那些开过花的枝条，如今挂满了青杏。我忽然明白，三月的花没有丢。它们掉在树根底下，化进土里，又从这根枝条上回来了，换了一身毛茸茸的青衣裳。奶奶的窗台留了一盘，我的记忆也留了一盘。

我们摘了半盆杏子。奶奶把最大的一串留在树顶，说留给你们爷爷的坟前供一碗，他活着的时候年年三月在树下坐。我抬头看那串杏，它长在三月开过花的那个位置，现在青着，六月会黄。

回去的车上，衣兜里揣着三颗青杏。路过城郊，我把车窗摇下来一条缝，五月的风灌进来。我想起奶奶举着竹竿的样子，想起她说的看一场少一场，忽然坐直了，跟爸爸说：明年三月，提前一天回来，我要看它开。

爸爸从后视镜里看了我一眼，说，好。我低头看掌心的三颗青杏，毛还在，扎手。它们记得三月的花，我也记得。这个约定，从这棵树开始，一年一年往下结。

The Green Apricots in May Remember March

Mid-May, grandma said on the phone, the apricots have set, green ones, come pick them. I arrived early Saturday morning. The apricot tree in the old courtyard hung full of tiny apricots, fuzzy, clustered along the branches in bunches. Grandma held a bamboo pole with an iron hook tied to its end to pull down the high clusters, and I caught them below in the hem of my shirt.

Green like this, sour, I bit into one and my whole face scrunched up. What is the rush, grandma laughed, they ripen in June. She leaned against the trunk and sat down, took out a handkerchief to wipe her hands, and suddenly said, when it bloomed in March, you were not here.

I truly had not been. At the end of March dad was on a business trip, mom worked the night shift, and I stayed in the city for a week. Grandma told me what happened: that morning she opened the door and found the whole tree in bloom overnight, white touched with pink, one blossom squeezing the next, every branch hidden. On the windy day the petals covered the ground, and she swept them toward the base of the tree instead of away from it, saying let them go home.

She also gathered some whole petals and arranged them pinch by pinch on a plate by the window, in a ring. She said she was getting old, and one fewer flower season is seen each year, so she had to keep a little. When I left, that plate of petals was still on the windowsill, faded a bit in the sun, and grandma never brought herself to put it away.

Now she sat under the tree telling me all this, and right above her head were the very branches that had bloomed, now hung with green apricots. It hit me all at once that the March flowers were not lost. They fell at the roots, melted into the soil, and came back up on these branches wearing fuzzy green coats. Grandma's windowsill kept a plate of them, and my memory kept a plate too.

We picked half a basin of apricots. Grandma left the biggest cluster at the top of the tree, saying it was for the bowl offered at grandpa's grave. While he was alive, he sat under this tree every March. I looked up at that cluster. It grew exactly where the March blossoms had been, green now, yellow by June.

In the car going home, three green apricots sat in my pocket. Passing the edge of the city, I cracked the window open and the May wind rushed in. I pictured grandma holding the bamboo pole, remembered her line about one season fewer each year, and suddenly sat up straight and said to dad, next March, come back a day early, I want to see it bloom.

Dad glanced at me in the rearview mirror and said, all right. I looked down at the three green apricots in my palm, fuzz still on them, pricking my skin. They remember the March flowers, and so do I. This promise starts with this tree, setting fruit year after year.