【日记】初中生下雨天的回忆日记600字：雨夜里的那盏灯

路口的那盏灯

10月17日 星期六 大雨。

作业卡在最后一道数学题上。窗外的雨声像有人不停往瓦檐上倒石子，一阵密，一阵疏。妈妈在工厂上夜班，九点半才下班。我不停地看钟，钟面上的数字像被钉住了不动。

十点过后，雨更大了。我坐不住，换上雨靴，抓起伞，跟爸爸说去路口接妈妈。爸爸从沙发上刚站起来，没拦住，我已经把门推开了。

路口离家只有两个街区。那里的路灯很旧，光是淡黄色的，雨丝一进入光圈就全都看得见，像斜着落下来的银线。路面上积起小水洼，灯光落进水洼里，被雨点打碎，又慢慢聚拢。我站在路口小店的雨棚下，朝工厂的方向一遍一遍地看。风把雨斜吹到脸上，凉得刺人，我往雨棚里缩了缩，脚却没有挪开半步。

十点二十分，我终于在远处看见妈妈。她撑伞走来，步子踩得很小心，裤脚已经湿成深色。伞是那把蓝色的旧伞，家里用了好多年，伞骨上有一处用胶带缠过。她抬头看见我，脚步加快，嘴边呼出一小团白气，问我怎么跑出来了，冷不冷。

回去的路上，我抢着打伞。妈妈骑电动车在前，我拎着她的工具包走在旁边，路灯把我们一个一个照亮，影子在湿路上拉长。妈妈忽然说，我小时候下雨天总吵着要她背，现在比她还高了。我没接话，把伞悄悄往她那边斜。我半边肩膀湿了，心里却发热。

快到家，妈妈把那把蓝伞又撑开，说回宿舍的路上还要用。我看着伞骨上缠胶带的那一处，在心里做了个决定：下个月用攒的零花钱买一把新伞，买把手好握的。雨还在下，可我不想再让妈妈走在雨里。我要成为撑伞走向她的人。

The Light at the Crossing

October 17th, Saturday, heavy rain.

Homework stalled on the last math problem. The rain outside the window sounded like someone pouring pebbles onto the tile eaves, now thick, now thin. Mom is on the night shift at the factory and will not get off until nine-thirty. I kept glancing at the clock, and the numbers on its face seemed nailed in place.

After ten the rain grew heavier. I could not sit still any longer. I changed into rain boots, grabbed an umbrella, and told Dad I was going to the crossing to meet Mom. He started to rise from the sofa but was too slow, and I had already pushed the door open.

The crossing is only two blocks from home. The streetlight there is old, its light pale yellow. Rain streaks become visible the moment they enter its halo, like silver threads falling slantwise. Water has gathered into small pools on the road. The light falls into a pool, is broken into pieces by raindrops, then gathers again. I stood under the eaves of a corner shop and looked toward the factory again and again. The wind blew rain slantwise onto my face, biting cold; I shrank back under the eaves, but my feet did not move half a step.

At 10:20 I finally saw Mom in the distance. She was walking toward me holding an umbrella, steps careful, the hem of her trousers already wet dark. The umbrella was blue, the same old one at home for years, one of its ribs wrapped with tape. She looked up, saw me, hurried her steps, a small cloud of white breath escaping from her mouth. She asked why I came out, and whether I was cold.

On the way back I insisted on holding the umbrella. Mom rode her e-bike in front while I walked beside her carrying her tool bag. The streetlights lit us one after another, stretching our shadows long on the wet road. Mom said suddenly that when I was small I always begged her to carry me on her back on rainy days, and now I am taller than she is. I did not answer, and quietly tilted the umbrella toward her. My own shoulder got wet, but something inside me felt warm.

Near home, Mom opened the blue umbrella again, saying she would use it on her way back to the dormitory. I looked at the taped rib and made a decision in my heart. Next month I will use my saved pocket money to buy a new umbrella, one with a handle that fits her hand well. The rain keeps falling, but I no longer want Mom to be the one walking through it. I want to be the one who holds the umbrella and walks toward her.

我撑伞去接她

4月12日 星期三 中雨。

放学到家时，天在下雨。妈妈还没下班。平时都是她在门口等我，今天我想做点不一样的。我把书包放下，换了双不怕水的鞋，拿上两把伞，朝工厂门口的公交站走去。妈妈坐七路车，在那儿下车。

雨声凑近了听不一样。打在伞面上，像一把一把粗沙子被扬起来。路边的沟水顺着路牙跑，哗哗地漫过鞋边。我一边走一边看时间，心里算过：放学四点五十，坐车十五分钟，走路二十分钟，紧一点刚好赶上。

路口的路灯已经亮了。雨天黑得早，光圈落在水面上，暖黄色，走过光圈的人都像裹了一层薄光。我站在灯下等，过路的车碾起水声，一阵接一阵。有个三年级的男孩被爷爷用伞扛着走，小男孩一路伸手接雨点。我想起自己那么大的时候，妈妈也是这样站在校门口的。

七路车进站，溅起一片水。妈妈下车，撑伞朝我走来，她自己带了伞，是把小伞，肩膀已经淋湿了一块。她看见我，愣了一下，然后笑了，说你怎么来接我了。我把大伞递过去，接过她手里的袋子。两个人共打一把大伞往前走，伞总往她那边偏，她推过来一次，我又推过去，谁也没说破。

到巷子口，妈妈忽然说，今天觉得自己像个被接放学的孩子。她语气很轻，我听见里面的高兴。我想起小学六年、初中三年，每个下雨天她都在那个位置，撑那把蓝伞，有时早上还要赶早班。我一直把这当成理所当然，从没想过她也需要有人去接她一次。

到家时我半边袖子是湿的，她肩膀上倒是干的。她拿毛巾给我擦头发，嘴上一直说傻，手很轻。深夜写这篇日记，雨还在敲窗，声音不难听了。我明白了一件事：爱不是只等人来接你，也是你去接一个人。下次下雨，我还想当妈妈第一眼就看见的那个人。

I Went into the Rain to Meet Her

April 12th, Wednesday, moderate rain.

When I got home from school, rain was falling. Mom had not come back from work yet. Usually she waits for me at the entrance, but today I wanted to do something different. I put down my schoolbag, changed into water-resistant shoes, took two umbrellas, and set off for the bus stop in front of the factory. Mom rides the number 7 bus and gets off there.

Up close the rain sounds different. Beating on the umbrella canopy, it is like handfuls of coarse sand being thrown. Gutter water ran along the road edge, gurgling past my shoes. I walked and checked the time. I had done the math: school ends at 4:50, the bus takes fifteen minutes, the walk twenty. If I hurry, I can make it exactly.

At the crossing the streetlight had already come on. Rainy days grow dark early, and the pool of light lay on the water, warm yellow, so that every pedestrian passing through it seemed wrapped in a thin glow. I stood under the light and waited. Cars went by, swishing up water, one after another. A third-grade boy was carried under an umbrella by his grandpa, and the little one kept reaching out to catch raindrops. I remembered being that size, and Mom standing at the school gate.

The number 7 bus arrived with a splash, and Mom stepped off. She was walking toward me holding an umbrella of her own, a small one, and her shoulder was already wet in a patch. When she saw me she froze for a second, then laughed, and asked how come I came to pick her up. I handed her the big umbrella and took the bag from her. We walked side by side under one umbrella, and it kept leaning toward her side. She pushed it back once, I pushed it over again, and neither of us said a word about it.

At the mouth of our lane, Mom said suddenly that today she felt like a child being picked up after school. Her voice was light, but I could hear the happiness inside it. I thought of six years of primary school and three years of middle school. On every rainy day she stood in that same spot with the blue umbrella, sometimes after rushing to an early shift herself. For so long I had taken it as a matter of course, and never once thought that she too needed someone to come and meet her.

When we got home, one of my sleeves was wet, but her shoulder stayed almost dry. As she dried my hair with a towel she kept calling me silly, yet her hands were very gentle. I am writing this entry late at night. The rain is still tapping the window, and the sound no longer feels annoying. There is one thing I understand now: love is not only someone waiting for you, but also you going out to meet someone. Next time it rains, I still want to be the first person Mom sees.