【散文】我的好朋友散文400字：一起走过的路

巷子里的上学路

上学要穿过一条巷子，两米来宽，从小区东门一直通到学校后门。这条路说不上好走，夏天一脚灰，雨天一脚水，可我和林小满并肩走了六年。

巷子口有个卖豆腐脑的摊子，白汽从桶里冒出来，老远就糊住半条巷子。我们从不买，只是跑得飞快时能闻见一股热豆香。路当中有块下水井盖，松了，踩上去当啷一响。一二年级我们绕着走，到了五年级，谁也不绕了，轮流踩，比谁踩得响。雨天墙根有蜗牛，壳是淡褐色的，我们蹲下去看过一回，迟到了，两个人站在教室门口喘。冬天冷，我们把手拢在袖子里，走一步跺一下脚，呼出的白气并排散开，像两团追着跑的云。

巷子东墙根有一棵槐树，碗口粗，夏天落一地细碎的黄花。西面整堵墙都是爬山虎，春天刚冒红芽，秋天就红成一片。我们身高一年一个样，影子在墙上从矮爬到高，爬山虎替我们记着。

放学我们走得很慢。慢到把上学时跑过的路全反过来走一遍，踢一颗石子能踢半条巷子。我们边走边猜今天的作业是哪几页，比谁能在井盖缝上跳得更远。夕阳把两个人的影子拉得很长，并排贴在墙上，风一吹，叶子的影子落在我们的影子中间。

他抄过我的数学作业，我抄过他的语文，两笔账互相欠着，谁也没还过。毕业那天他在我同学录上写：路还长。我们数过这条巷子的砖，一百零六块，从东门数到后门，一块不多，一块不少。

如今我们在不同的学校。他在城南，上学要骑车上大街；我在城北，还穿这条巷子，只是一个人走。巷子口豆腐脑摊还在，白汽还是糊住半条巷子，槐树去年被修得只剩一个秃桩。上个月一个下雨的傍晚，我走在巷子里，前头有个穿校服的小女孩贴着墙根走，书包带子一甩一甩。走到槐树桩那儿，她停下来系鞋带，像是在等同伴。两分钟后，另一个孩子从岔口跑进来。两个人并排走远了，影子在湿墙上连成一片。

我站在原地想，这条路没有散。它把我们交给了各自的路，又把并肩这种走法，留给了下一个经过的人。

The Alley We Walked to School

To get to school we cut through an alley, barely two meters wide, running from the east gate of our neighborhood straight to the back door of the school. It was not a pleasant road: dust underfoot in summer, puddles in rain. Still, Lin Xiaoman and I walked it side by side for six years.

At the mouth of the alley stood a tofu-pudding stall, white steam rising from the bucket and blurring half the lane long before we reached it. We never bought any, but when we ran fast we could catch a warm smell of beans. A manhole cover sat loose in the middle of the path and clanged when stepped on. In grades one and two we walked around it; by grade five neither of us did, and we took turns stomping, competing to see who could make it ring louder. On rainy days pale brown snails lined the wall, and we once crouched to watch them and arrived late, both of us out of breath at the classroom door. In winter we kept our hands tucked in our sleeves and stamped once per step, our breath rising side by side like two clouds chasing each other.

By the east wall stood a locust tree, thick as a bowl at the trunk, dropping a floor of tiny yellow flowers in summer. The whole west wall was covered with Boston ivy, red buds in spring, a sea of red in autumn. Our heights changed year by year, and our shadows climbed higher along the wall while the ivy kept the record for us.

After school we walked slowly, so slowly that we ran the morning route backwards, kicking one pebble for half the length of the lane. We guessed which pages the homework would be, and jumped the cracks of the manhole cover to see who could leap farther. The setting sun stretched our shadows long against the wall, side by side, and when the wind blew, leaf-shadows fell between the two of us.

He once copied my math homework, and I copied his Chinese. The two debts canceled each other out, and neither was ever repaid. On graduation day he wrote in my book of classmates: the road is still long. We once counted the bricks of the lane, one hundred and six, from the east gate to the back door, not one more, not one less.

Now we go to different schools. He lives in the south of the city and bikes to class along a wide street; I still cross this alley, alone. The tofu-pudding stall is still there, its steam still blurring half the lane, though the locust tree was pruned to a bare stump last year. On a rainy evening last month I was walking the alley when a schoolgirl ahead hugged the wall, the straps of her bag swinging. She stopped to tie her shoe by the tree stump, as if waiting for a companion, and two minutes later another child came running in from the side street. The two walked off side by side, their shadows joined into one on the wet wall.

I stood there and thought: this road has not come apart. It handed us over to our separate roads, and left the way of walking side by side for the next pair who pass through.

歪伞和并肩的人

三年级分班，我和周舟又成了同路。说是同路，其实是他迁就我：他家住东，我家在北，为了送我，他要先穿过整条横街。从那天起，只要下雨，他书包侧袋里那把蓝伞就会撑开在我头顶。

伞是那种最普通的折叠伞，伞面小，两个人挤，总有一边的肩膀在外头。奇怪的是我从来淋不着。有一回我偏头去看，才发现伞是歪的，歪向我这边，伞柄在他手里，他的左肩从袖口到肩头湿了一大片，颜色深得像块补丁。他走路快，胳膊甩着，全然不在意的样子。

我装作没看见，把伞往他那边推了推。他又推回来，嘴里说：你那边风大。我们就这样把一把伞推来推去，走完了那条横街。雨点打在伞面上，密的时候像炒豆子，稀的时候一滴一滴从伞骨上坠下来，砸在水洼里，一个圆套一个圆。我们的鞋都湿了，鞋在水里走，咕啾咕啾，倒像是两个人合奏。

六年级下学期，他妈妈给换了把大伞，黑伞，撑开能罩住三个人。我想这下该公平了。结果有一天放学雨大，我低头走路，忽然发现影子不对——伞还是歪的，这回歪向右，因为他换了右手打伞，湿的是右肩。我停下来，把伞柄往中间摆正。他看了看我，没说话，笑了。那一路伞是正的，雨也大，两个人的肩膀都淋湿了一半，回家都挨了妈妈说，谁也没提。

有一回雪天，伞换成了他胳膊底下夹的一条旧围巾，他绕了一圈系在我脖子上，自己脖子空着，一路缩着。我到家才发现他耳根冻得通红。这样的事他从不摆出来讲，我也就学着不摆出来讲。

毕业以后，我们在不同的学校，下雨各自打各自的伞。可我打伞总打不正，伞总要往旁边歪一点，歪给谁呢，旁边没有人。我妈说我打伞姿势怪，我说不清。也许打伞的人心里都留着一个位置，留给从前并肩走的那个。那条横街还在，水洼还在，只是我们各自走了各自的路。我总觉得还欠着那把歪伞一笔账，账不大，够我还很多个下雨天。

The Crooked Umbrella and the Friend Beside Me

In grade three the classes were reshuffled, and Zhou Zhou and I became companions on the road home again. Companion is generous: his home lay east and mine north, so walking me home meant he had to cross the whole side street first. From that day on, whenever it rained, the blue umbrella in the side pocket of his bag opened over my head.

It was an ordinary folding umbrella, small canopied, too small for two, so one shoulder always stayed outside. Strangely, I never once got wet. One day I turned my head and found the umbrella was crooked, tilted toward my side. The handle sat in his hand, and his left shoulder was dark with water from cuff to shoulder, the wet patch like a piece of cloth sewn on. He walked fast, arm swinging, as if nothing at all were wrong.

I pretended not to notice and nudged the umbrella toward him. He nudged it back, saying only: the wind is heavier on your side. So we pushed one umbrella back and forth all the way along the side street. Rain struck the canopy, dense as beans in a hot pan, and when it thinned, drops fell rib by rib from the frame into puddles, ring inside ring. Our shoes were soaked, and squelched with each step, a duet played by two pairs of feet.

In the last term of grade six his mother replaced the umbrella with a big black one, wide enough for three. I thought that would make things fair. But one rainy afternoon I was watching my feet when I noticed the shadow was wrong. The umbrella was crooked again, this time leaning right, because he had switched the handle to his right hand, and his right shoulder was the wet one. I stopped and straightened the handle to the middle. He looked at me, said nothing, smiled. The umbrella stayed true for the rest of the way, the rain stayed heavy, both our shoulders got half soaked, and both of us were scolded at home, and neither mentioned it.

Once on a snowy day the umbrella gave way to an old scarf tucked under his arm. He looped it around my neck and left his own neck bare, shoulders hunched all the way home. Only when I got in did I remember his ears had been frozen red. He never paraded such things, so I learned not to parade them either.

After graduation we went to different schools, each holding an umbrella of our own in the rain. But my umbrella never sits straight; it always leans a little to one side. Leans for whom? There is no one beside me. My mother says my umbrella posture is strange. I cannot explain it. Perhaps everyone who holds an umbrella keeps one spare place in mind, saved for the one who once walked beside them. The side street is still there, and the puddles are still there; we simply took our separate roads. I feel I still owe that crooked umbrella a debt, small enough that many rainy days will pay it off.