【散文】我的好朋友主题散文600字：那个夏天，那把伞

那个夏天，那把伞

我又梦见那把伞了。蓝格子布，伞骨断了一根，用绿色胶带缠着。梦里它还是倾斜的样子，斜向我这一边。

那是六年级的夏天。放学铃响的时候，天已经黑得像倒扣的锅，雨砸下来，走廊上挤满了等人送伞的孩子。我和苏小舟站在最外头，她翻书包，翻出一把伞，冲我晃了晃，说，走，伞够两个人瘦的。

雨大得看不清前面的路，水从脚踝漫过去。她把伞举过来，举到我头顶，我往那边推，她又挪回来。推让了半条街，我干脆不推了，只把书包顶在头上。走到桥洞底下避雨，我才发现她左半边肩膀是深的，校服湿透了，贴在身上，右边却是干的。她发现我在看，就说，我左眼近视，打伞天生歪。

我们踩着水往回走，故意不躲水洼，一脚一个，溅起来就笑。雨声那么大，我们的笑声也不小。路过豆腐坊，白汽从门缝里冒出来，她买了一碗豆花，我们俩蹲在屋檐下一人一口地吃完，碗底留的糖水被雨声衬得特别甜。那条放学路，平时十分钟，那天走了四十分钟。我们谁也没说回家晚了会挨骂。

后来我们去了不同的中学，不同的城市。听说她当了护士，打针又快又轻。我搬家的时候翻出一把蓝格子伞，伞骨完好，反而用不惯，把它收进柜子最上层。

多年后的雨夜，我加完班站在写字楼门厅，同事把伞借我，说他用不着。我撑着伞走进雨里，雨点打在伞面上，一声一声，和那年一模一样。我忽然想起那条湿肩膀，想起「我左眼近视，打伞天生歪」，想起豆花的甜。原来有些伞，撑过一次，就一直在头顶上。

那个夏天早过去了。可每到雨天，我走路总会往左边让一让，像给谁留出伞的位置。

That Summer, That Umbrella

I dreamed of that umbrella again. Blue checked cloth, one rib broken and wrapped with green tape. Even in the dream it was still tilted, leaning toward my side.

That was the summer of Grade six. When the school bell rang, the sky was already black like a wok turned upside down, and the rain came hammering down. The corridor filled with children waiting for someone to bring them an umbrella. Su Xiaozhou and I stood at the outer edge. She turned her schoolbag inside out, found one umbrella, and waved it at me, saying come on, this umbrella is big enough for two thin people.

The rain was too heavy to see the road ahead, and water ran over our ankles. She lifted the umbrella over my head. I pushed it toward her; she moved it back. We gave way to each other for half a street. Finally I stopped pushing and held my schoolbag over my head instead. When we sheltered under the bridge, I noticed that her left shoulder was dark, her uniform soaked through and clinging to her body, while the right side was dry. She saw me looking and said, my left eye is nearsighted, so my umbrella always hangs crooked by nature.

We walked back through the water, deliberately aiming at the puddles, one splash per step, laughing at every spray. The rain was so loud, and our laughter was just as loud. Passing the tofu workshop, white steam rose from the crack of its door. She bought one bowl of bean curd pudding, and we squatted under the eaves eating it spoonful by spoonful, the two of us. The sugar water left in the bottom of the bowl tasted especially sweet against the sound of the rain. The road home from school takes ten minutes on an ordinary day. That day we walked forty. Neither of us mentioned the scolding waiting at home.

Later we went to different middle schools, different cities. I heard she became a nurse, giving injections fast and light. When I moved house I found a blue checked umbrella with all its ribs intact, and I could not get used to it, so I put it away on the top shelf of the closet.

On a rainy night years later, after overtime, I stood in the lobby of the office building, and a colleague lent me his umbrella, saying he did not need it. I walked into the rain, and the drops struck the umbrella, one by one, exactly like that year. Suddenly I remembered that wet shoulder, and the line about the nearsighted left eye and the crooked umbrella, and the sweetness of the bean curd pudding. Some umbrellas, once held over you, stay overhead forever.

That summer ended long ago. But on every rainy day, as I walk, I still shift a little to the left, as if leaving room for someone under the umbrella.

伞柄上的名字

搬家的纸箱翻到最底下，摸到一把伞。黑布伞，伞柄是木头的，握过的位置磨得发亮，侧面刻着一个歪歪的「林」字。我坐在纸箱堆里，一下子回到了初三那个梅雨季。

那年的雨像没有尽头，书包是湿的，课本是湿的，连梦都是潮的。我家离学校远，林向东家近，他每天放学把伞塞给我，自己顶着一件雨衣冲进雨里。我说你明天不用带了，他说雨衣比伞快，伞要等人，雨衣不等人。我知道这是他的说法。他的雨衣其实破了个口，他不说。

共伞的日子也有。他个子高，伞举得高，我走得快，伞沿上的雨滴排成一串，像跟着我们搬家。他不说话的时候，我就数伞骨，一共八根。他问我数伞骨干什么，我说数着数着就不觉得雨大了。他想了想，从口袋里摸出小刀，在伞柄上刻了一个他的姓，说这样这把伞就认得路，丢不了。

毕业那天他把伞留给了我，说伞归我，雨衣归雨。后来我们失联了很多年。我结婚那年下大雨，婚礼门口有人替我撑伞挡雨，我道谢抬头，是他。他胖了，头发少了，伞举高的样子一点没变。他说路过，听说今天办事，就来了。他的雨衣还是那件，破口还在。

这次同学聚会，他从包里掏出那把黑布伞——不对，是我那把，伞柄上「林」字磨得更浅了。他说路过伞店想起这把伞该换布了，拿去换了新布，伞骨还是旧的。我们撑它走到地铁站，雨不大，他把伞照旧举得高高的，我照旧走得快。八根伞骨，我还在数。

原来友情不是伞，友情是伞柄上那个刻歪的字。雨停了它还在，磨浅了它还在。多年以后我仍记得梅雨的味道，记得有人把伞塞给我，说雨衣不等人。那句话骗了我三年，我领了三年。

The Name on the Umbrella Handle

Near the bottom of a moving box, my hand found an umbrella. A black cloth umbrella with a wooden handle, polished bright where the hand held it, and carved on its side, crookedly, was the character Lin. Sitting there among the boxes, I was thrown straight back to the plum-rain season of Grade nine.

The rain that year seemed endless. Schoolbags were wet, textbooks were wet, even dreams felt damp. My home was far from school; Lin Xiangdong lived near it. Every day after school he pressed his umbrella into my hands and dashed into the rain himself under a raincoat. I told him he need not bring one tomorrow. He said the raincoat is faster than the umbrella, because the umbrella has to wait for people, and the raincoat waits for nobody. I knew it was his way of putting it. His raincoat actually had a tear in it, and he did not say so.

There were days of sharing the umbrella too. He was tall and held the umbrella high. I walked fast. Raindrops from the rim of the umbrella fell in a string, as if moving house along with us. When he was silent, I counted the umbrella ribs, eight in all. He asked why I counted ribs. I said counting them makes the rain feel smaller. He thought for a moment, took a small knife from his pocket, and carved his family name into the handle, saying that now the umbrella knows the way home and cannot be lost.

On graduation day he left the umbrella with me, saying the umbrella belongs to me and the rain belongs to the rain. Then we lost touch for many years. The year I got married, it rained hard. At the door of the wedding someone held an umbrella over me to keep the rain off. I thanked them and looked up, and it was him. He had grown heavier, with less hair, but the way he held the umbrella high had not changed at all. He said he was passing by, heard about the wedding, and came. His raincoat was still that same one, and the tear was still there.

At this class reunion he took the black cloth umbrella out of his bag. No, it was my umbrella, and the character Lin on the handle had worn even shallower. He said passing an umbrella shop he remembered this one needed new cloth, so he had it recovered with new cloth, but the ribs are still the old ones. We walked to the subway station under it. The rain was light. He held the umbrella high as always, and I walked fast as always. Eight ribs. I was still counting.

Friendship, it turns out, is not the umbrella. Friendship is that crooked carved character on the handle. When the rain stops it remains; when it wears shallow it remains. Even years later I remember the smell of the plum rain, and remember someone pressing his umbrella into my hands, saying the raincoat waits for nobody. That line deceived me for three years, and I accepted the gift for three years.