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槐花落在作业本上
我喜欢夏天，喜欢得最有根据。别人问夏天什么样，我答得出，因为夏天在我身上留下的东西太多了。
最先到的不是热，是香。外婆家院里的槐树开花前，风先捎信：路过院门口，鼻子忽然被一股甜丝丝的味道撞了一下，抬头才看见一串串白。等到满树都开，那香味就不是一下了，是一整天泡在里面。花落得更直接。有天下午我在院里写作业，一阵风过去，几朵槐花落在摊开的作业本上，我拈起来放到鼻尖，又放回纸上。第二天那页纸上留下几个浅黄的圆印子，我舍不得撕，那页成了我整个夏天最贵的一页。
夏天的声音是分层数的。中午蝉叫成一片，密得让人心烦，可等你睡着了，它反而成了安静的一部分。傍晚不一样，外婆在厨房切菜，刀碰砧板，笃、笃，油一下锅，刺啦，井里的水桶碰着井壁，咚。我蹲在井边看她摇井绳，手心贴着井沿的石头，凉得沁人。夏天的凉不在空调里，在那些碰一下就知道的地方。
井水镇过的西瓜是夏天的重头戏。瓜在井里沉半个下午，捞上来时外头挂着一层水珠，刀还没落下，裂开的咔一声先响了。最甜的是靠近瓜皮那一圈，我和外婆一人一半，用勺子挖，挖到最后两半都见了红，谁也不许谁的那半。吃瓜的时候没人说话，蝉在叫，水滴在石桌上，这就是夏天最满的时刻。
雷阵雨说来就来。前一刻还晒得地面发白，乌云忽然压过来，风卷着槐花打旋，雨点砸在石桌上蹦起小坑。我和外婆收院子里的凳子，她喊快，我抱着两条凳子跑，鞋里灌了水也不觉得。雨停得快，空气里有土腥味，屋檐还在滴水，滴答滴答，天边露出一小块亮。外婆说这场雨下了，槐花又能香一周。
夏天过去以后，我不用翻照片就能想起它：鼻子记得槐花的甜，耳朵记得蝉和刺啦的油锅，手心记得井沿的石头，舌头记得靠近瓜皮的那一圈甜。我最喜欢的季节，就是这样一寸一寸长在我身上的。
Locust Flowers Fall on the Homework Book
I like summer, and I like it with evidence. When others ask what summer is like, I can answer, because summer has left too many things on me.
What arrives first is not the heat but the scent. Before the locust tree in the yard of my grandmother flowers, the wind sends word ahead: passing the gate, your nose is suddenly struck by a streak of sweetness, and only then do you look up and see the clusters of white. When the whole tree is in bloom, the fragrance is no longer a moment; you soak in it all day long. The fallen flowers are more direct. One afternoon I was doing homework in the yard, a gust passed, and several locust flowers landed on my open notebook. I picked one to my nose, then laid it back on the paper. The next day the page carried a few pale yellow round marks. I could not bear to tear the page out; it became the most precious page of my whole summer.
The sounds of summer stack in layers. At noon the cicadas cry in one dense sheet, maddening, yet once you fall asleep they turn into part of the quiet. Evening is different: grandmother chops vegetables in the kitchen, the knife meeting the board, tok, tok; the oil spits as the wok takes the food, sizzle; the bucket in the well knocks the well wall, thud. I squat by the well watching her crank the rope, my palm flat on the stone rim, cold enough to seep into the bone. The coolness of summer does not live in air conditioners; it lives in places you know by a single touch.
The watermelon chilled in the well is the main event. The melon sinks in the well for half an afternoon; when hauled up, its skin wears a layer of beads. Before the knife falls, the crack of its splitting sounds first. The sweetest part is the ring near the rind. Grandmother and I take one half each and dig with spoons, and when both halves turn red at the last spoonfuls, neither may touch the share of the other. Nobody talks while eating. The cicadas cry, water drips on the stone table - that is summer at its fullest.
The thunderstorm comes the moment it decides. A moment earlier the ground was bleached by sun; then the cloud presses down, wind whirls the locust flowers into spirals, raindrops punch little craters on the stone table. Grandmother and I carry in the stools; she shouts hurry, I run holding two stools, water sloshing in my shoes without mattering. The rain stops as fast as it came. The air smells of wet earth, the eaves still drip, plip plip, and a patch of brightness shows at the edge of the sky. Grandmother says after this rain the locust flowers will stay fragrant another week.
Long after summer is gone, I can recall it without photos: the nose remembers the sweetness of locust flowers, the ears remember the cicadas and the sizzling wok, the palm remembers the stone rim of the well, the tongue remembers the ring of melon near the rind. My favourite season grows onto me inch by inch, this is how.
屋顶上的柿子红了
老屋屋顶上长着两棵柿子树，是我对秋天最早的记号。别的树在秋天忙着落叶，它们不，它们忙着结果。九月底果子还是青硬的，摸上去像一颗小石头，顶着一层白霜似的东西。十月中旬转黄，黄里带一点橙，像谁在灰瓦上点了两盏灯。到了十一月，满树红透，屋顶上像落了一群不动的火烈鸟。
乌鸦比人先知道柿子熟了。霜降前后，它们每天来两趟，站在屋脊上歪头看。爷爷拿竹竿赶过一回，第二天照来。爷爷说不打它们的主意，留一半给鸟，留一半等人。我们家的规矩是霜降之前谁也不许打柿子，青柿子涩，涩得能把舌头绑起来。我小时候不懂，偷摘过一个，整节课口水都不对劲，从此服了这个节气。
霜降那天，爷爷搬梯子上屋顶。我跟在后面，看他挑果子：不摘最红的，专摘红里还带一线黄的，说全红的挂不住霜，放不了几天。他摘下来的柿子码进铺了稻草的木箱，一层果一层草，抬进北屋。剩下的红果留在树上，给乌鸦，也给冬天路过的雀子。我在梯子下接，柿子递到我手里是软的，凉凉的，蒂把上还带着一小片枯叶。
木箱里的柿子要再放几天。奶奶把柿子和几个熟苹果扣在一个盆里，说苹果催它们。第三天打开，捏一捏，软了。最甜的那种是从中间吸，捅个小口，一吸，蜜一样。我们吸柿子的时候，屋顶上剩下的那批红果正在一天天少下去，乌鸦来一趟少几个，谁也不数，反正树和鸟之间的事，它们自己安排。
后来我住进城里，秋天变成日历上的字。可每年十一月，我总要抬头找红色的东西，找不着就在心里给老屋屋顶留一盏。爷爷还在的时候说过，柿子是好东西，它把一整个秋天的太阳攒到最后一口给你。我信。我喜欢的秋天不在那些很美两个字里，在青果顶上的白霜里，在舌头被涩住的那节课里，在捅开小口吸第一下的那口甜里。
The Persimmons on the Roof Turned Red
Two persimmon trees grow on the roof of the old house, the earliest marks of autumn for me. Other trees are busy dropping leaves in autumn; these two are not. They are busy bearing fruit. In late September the fruit is still green and hard, feeling like a small stone when touched, wearing something like white frost. By mid-October it turns yellow, a thread of orange inside the yellow, as if someone had lit two lamps on the grey tiles. By November the whole tree is red through, and the roof looks like a flock of motionless flamingos.
Crows learn of the ripening before people do. Around the Frost Descent they come twice a day, standing on the ridge of the roof, heads tilted. Grandfather chased them off once with a bamboo pole; the next day they came back as usual. He says we must not eye those persimmons: leave half for the birds, leave half for people. Our house rule is that nobody may knock down persimmons before the Frost Descent. Green persimmons are astringent, astringent enough to tie your tongue up. As a child I did not understand and stole one, and my mouth felt wrong through an entire class, so from then on I obeyed that solar term.
On the day of the Frost Descent, grandfather carries a ladder to the roof. I follow below and watch him choose: he never takes the reddest ones, only those with a thread of yellow still inside the red, saying fully red fruit cannot hold the frost and will not keep for days. The picked persimmons are stacked in a wooden box lined with straw, one layer of fruit, one layer of straw, and carried into the north room. The red ones left on the tree are for the crows, and for the sparrows passing through winter. I receive from below the ladder; a persimmon in my hand is soft, cool, with a small withered leaf still on its stem.
The persimmons in the box need a few more days. Grandmother puts them in a basin with several ripe apples and covers the basin, saying the apples will hurry them along. On the third day, open it, squeeze one: soft. The sweetest way is to suck from the middle - poke a small hole and one pull, and it is like honey. While we suck persimmons, the red fruit left on the roof thins day by day, a few fewer after each visit of the crows. Nobody counts; the business between the tree and the birds arranges itself.
Later I lived in the city, and autumn became words on a calendar. But every November I still look up for something red, and if I find none I keep a lamp lit in my heart on the roof of the old house. While grandfather was still with us he said persimmons are good things: they save up the sun of the whole autumn and give it to you in the last bite. I believe it. The autumn I love does not live in the two words so beautiful; it lives in the white frost on a green fruit, in that class period when my tongue got tied up, in the first pull of sweetness through a small poked hole.
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