【随笔】下雨天的回忆随笔400字：陪孩子听一场雨

陪孩子听一场雨

雨是下午三点多落下来的。女儿放下铅笔，跑到阳台，趴在窗边，鼻尖几乎贴上玻璃。

她没有喊我看彩虹，只是招手让我过去。我走到她身边，她压低声音，像怕惊动什么：听，雨在跟窗户说话。玻璃上淌下几道细流，外面的晾衣绳模糊成一条灰线。

雨越下越密，打在楼下那棵樟树的叶子上。女儿侧着耳朵，说大的雨点啪的一声，小的沙沙沙，像一锅水在慢慢烧开。她数着数着兴奋起来，拉我再听一遍，说叶子在喝水。

我听着听着，想起自己的小时候。那时候下雨等于放假。老师站在教室门口看天，雨一大，就挥手让我们把书包背好。有一回雨大得看不清对面楼，校门口挤满接孩子的家长，我妈也来了，穿着那件旧雨衣，裤脚全是泥，手里攥着一把伞。她一见到我就把伞塞过来，自己钻进雨里，说家里还晒着东西。我举着伞跟在她背后，看雨点在她背上砸出一朵朵深色的花。

女儿问我，你们小时候下雨玩什么。我说那时候没有结实的雨伞，也没有防水的鞋，放学蹚水回家，书包顶在头上，鞋提在手里，水花溅上裤腿，凉得发抖。她说现在下雨只能待在屋里。她说这话时没有遗憾，只是陈述。我说，那也可以站在窗边听。她想了想，说刚才不是已经听过了吗，语气里觉得自己做了件了不起的事。

雨在傍晚小下去。她趴在窗边等彩虹，只等到一小片橘色的云。她有点失望，我让她听，屋檐还在滴水。她闭上眼睛数了几滴，睁开眼睛说，雨走了，它在跟屋檐告别。

那天晚上她没有要我多讲什么。也许她要的不是故事，是有人陪她把这场雨听完。后来她回桌前继续写作业，雨声没停，她偶尔抬头看一眼窗外，又低下头。我把那杯凉透的茶收走，心里盘算着，明天带她到树底下去，好好看看那些被雨打落的叶子。

Listening to the Rain with My Child

The rain came down a little after three in the afternoon. My daughter put down her pencil, ran to the balcony, leaned against the window, and pressed her nose almost flat against the glass.

She did not call me to look for a rainbow. She only waved me over. When I came, she lowered her voice, as if afraid of disturbing something: listen, the rain is talking to the window. Thin streams ran down the glass, and the clothesline outside blurred into a gray line.

The rain grew thicker and beat on the leaves of the camphor tree downstairs. My daughter tilted her ear to listen. The heavy drops go pop, she said, and the small ones go swish, swish, like a pot of water slowly coming to a boil. Counting the sounds, she got excited and pulled me to listen again, saying the leaves were drinking water.

As I listened, I thought of my own childhood. Rain used to mean a holiday. Our teacher would stand at the classroom door and look at the sky, and when the rain grew heavy, she waved us to put on our schoolbags. Once the rain was so thick that you could not see the building across the street. The school gate was packed with parents, and my mother was there too, wearing her old raincoat, her trouser cuffs covered in mud, a folded umbrella in her hand. The moment she saw me she pushed the umbrella into my arms and walked out into the rain herself, saying the laundry at home was still out. I followed behind her, holding the umbrella over her, and watched the raindrops beat dark flowers all over her back.

My daughter asked what we used to do on rainy days when I was small. I said there were no sturdy umbrellas then and no waterproof shoes. After school we waded home, held our schoolbags over our heads, carried our shoes in our hands, and cold water splashed up our trouser legs until we shivered. She said that now, when it rains, she can only stay indoors. She said it without regret, just as a fact. I told her she could still stand by the window and listen. She thought for a moment, then said had she not already been listening, proud of something she felt she had done well.

The rain softened toward evening. She leaned at the window waiting for a rainbow, but only a small orange cloud came. She was a little disappointed, so I told her to listen: the eaves were still dripping. She closed her eyes, counted a few drops, then opened them and said the rain had left, and it was saying goodbye to the eaves.

That evening she asked for nothing more. Perhaps what she wanted was not a story but someone to hear this rain out with her. Later she went back to her homework. The rain kept falling, and now and then she looked up at the window and then bent her head again. I took away the cup of tea gone cold, thinking that tomorrow I would take her under the tree and look closely at the leaves the rain had beaten down.

教室窗外的雨

自习课进行到一半，雨落了下来。我先听见的是声音，啪、啪，打在走廊尽头铁皮雨棚上，像有人用小锤子敲。抬头，靠窗那一排学生已经不写字了，脸都朝着窗外。

我没有呵斥他们坐正。雨点转密，改打在操场边那排水杉的叶子上，沙沙声铺开来，盖住了日光灯的嗡鸣。全班安静下来，笔尖停在纸上，都在听。后排的周锐干脆把椅子挪到窗边，趴下去，额头贴着玻璃。我走过去，本想让他回座位，他先开了口：老师，叶子上的声音跟棚子上的不一样。

我停在他旁边，也听了一会儿。确实不一样。铁皮上是脆的，一片一片；树叶上是软的，连成一片，风一来，哗地翻过去，像一锅水开了又压下去。周锐说，他奶奶家的屋顶也是这样的声音。我问他奶奶家在下雨的时候还有什么。他说有泥巴路，他小时候专门挑水坑踩，裤腿全湿了，他奶奶站在门口骂，一边骂一边给他换干袜子。

他讲这些的时候声音很平常，像在说一件昨天发生的事。我忽然想起自己小时候。老屋的瓦片接雨，夜里滴答滴答，水缸摆在檐下接漏，天亮时缸里的水满出一圈。母亲把我们几兄弟的雨鞋在灶边烤干，第二天早上鞋里是暖的。我那时候从没觉得这些值得讲，原来它们一直在，等的就是这样一个趴在窗边的下午。

我回到讲台，在黑板上写下几个字：听雨五分钟。学生们抬头看我，没敢出声。我说，这五分钟不用写，听完就坐回来。那五分钟里，四十几个孩子没有一个说话。雨声从铁皮移到树叶，又从树叶移到水泥地上，声音一层一层换过去，他们一层一层听着。

五分钟后，我让每人说一句刚才听到的。有人说像炒豆子，有人说像远处有火车，周锐说像他奶奶家的屋顶。坐在最前面的女生想了半天，说她听到雨停了一小会儿又下起来，中间那几秒，世界安静得能听见自己的呼吸。

那节课的原定内容没有讲完，我第二天补上了。可是那场雨，他们大概会记很久。放学时雨还在下，周锐在门口回头冲我喊，老师，明天要是还下雨，还听吗。我说，听。

Rain Outside the Classroom Window

Halfway through the study hall, the rain began. What reached me first was the sound: tap, tap, on the tin awning at the end of the corridor, as if someone were tapping it with a small hammer. I looked up, and the row of students by the window had stopped writing, their faces turned outside.

I did not tell them to sit up straight. The drops thickened and shifted to the row of dawn redwoods by the playground, and the rustle spread out, covering the hum of the fluorescent lights. The whole class went quiet, pens paused on paper, everyone listening. Zhou Rui from the back row moved his chair to the window and leaned down, his forehead against the glass. I walked over, meaning to send him back, but he spoke first: teacher, the sound on the leaves is different from the sound on the awning.

I stood beside him and listened for a while. It was different. On the tin it was crisp, drop by drop; on the leaves it was soft, running together into one sheet, and when the wind came it swept over with a rush, like a pot of water boiling up and then being pressed down. Zhou Rui said his grandmother's roof made this same sound. I asked what else there was at his grandmother's house when it rained. He said there was a muddy road, and when he was little he deliberately stomped in the puddles until his trouser legs were soaked. His grandmother would scold him from the doorway, scolding him while she changed his socks for dry ones.

He told this in an ordinary voice, as if describing something that happened yesterday. It struck me that I had my own childhood memories. Rain on the tiles of the old house dripped all night; a water jar sat under the eaves to catch the leak, and by dawn its water brimmed a ring at the top. My mother dried our rubber boots by the stove, and the next morning the inside of the shoes was warm. As a child I never thought any of that worth telling. It had all been there, waiting for an afternoon exactly like this one, with a boy leaning at a window.

I went back to the podium and wrote on the blackboard: five minutes of listening to the rain. The students looked up, not daring to make a sound. I said these five minutes need not be written down; listen, then come back to your seats. In those five minutes, not one of the forty-odd children spoke. The rain moved from the tin to the leaves, then from the leaves to the concrete, its voice changing layer by layer, and they listened through each layer.

Afterward I asked each student to say one thing they had heard. One said it sounded like beans being stir-fried. One said it sounded like a train far away. Zhou Rui said it sounded like his grandmother's roof. The girl in the front row thought for a long time, then said she heard the rain stop for a few seconds and start again, and in those few seconds the world was quiet enough for her to hear her own breathing.

We never finished the lesson I had planned; I made it up the next day. But that rain, they will probably remember for a long time. When school let out the rain was still falling, and Zhou Rui turned at the gate and shouted to me: teacher, if it rains tomorrow, do we listen again? I said, we do.