時間的灣-1
那一年你十八歲, 在馬蹄灣， 那個科羅拉多河轉了幾乎360度彎的地方。 湛藍的天空， 見不到一絲雲彩， 而馬蹄灣的河水比天空還要藍。 紅褐色的峭壁環繞著蜿蜒的河， 在河麵上灑下它們蒼老的倒影。 站在懸崖邊的你， 小心翼翼地前傾著， 低頭望著那似乎紋絲不動的河麵。 是的， 你清楚的記得， 那時你看不出河水有丁點兒的流動， 那時的你也感覺不到時間的流走。
你登上了馬蹄灣景區的最高處， 是人能攀至的最高處。 一塊巨大的岩石形成一個約50米高的山丘， 在它的光滑的的斜坡正中， 突兀地拱起一塊， 頂部比根基大出很多， 懸空的部分， 略微向上揚著， 對著馬蹄灣， 像斜坡上生出一個鷹頭， 而鷹嘴斜刺向天空。 你驚訝為何這一塊岩石獨自在千百年的風蝕中生存下來， 為何風， 還有時間， 會從它的身邊繞過。
你有些許失望， 一個和你年紀相仿的女孩已經坐在岩石的鷹嘴上， 每個登上來的人都渴望留影的位置。 她的年紀是你憑著她的發型， 背影， 和衣著猜測的， 也許還有隨風飄來的清香。 你站在離她幾米遠處， 望著她， 希望她能早點離開。 可她的背影吸引著你， 沒有移動， 沒有聲音， 恬靜地望著遠方， 融入湛藍的天。 你湧起坐在她身邊的衝動， 和她一起， 靜靜地把時間停住。
朋友在喊你的名字， 你這才想起要趕回拉斯維加斯去看今晚的【披頭士的愛】。 朋友指了指腕上的手表， 然後舉起相機做出照相的手勢。 你隻好就地坐下來， 匆匆給朋友的鏡頭留下一個微笑。
你和朋友快步離開馬蹄灣景區， 走向停車場。 你回頭一瞥， 女孩不知何時已離開了。 你在過往的人群裏搜尋， 深藍底， 紅格子棉襯衣的背影， 和一張恬靜純真的臉， 融入藍天的女孩該是恬靜的， 純真的。
。。。。。。
拖拉的朋友終於把照片寄給了你。 相片裏， 你笑得少有的自然。 朋友取景的技術很不錯， 湛藍的天， 紅褐色的岩石， 還有那個女孩， 在左側的背景裏。 讓你驚訝的是， 那個女孩也正扭過頭來， 臉對著鏡頭。 你隱約看到一張恬靜， 純真的笑臉。
。。。。。。
這是你和她的第三次約會， 也是第一次晚餐。 你和前妻二十年的婚姻走到盡頭後， 熱心的朋友已經給你介紹了十來個。 她是第一個你能前進到第三次約會的。 走出餐館， 她邀你去她家喝茶， 說這兒離她家很近。 雖然有些意外， 可這盛夏的夜， 8點鍾時， 你感覺更像一個暖春的下午， 還是喝茶的好時光。
轉過幾個街角， 就到了她的家。 夕陽的柔光正擁著乳白色的門廊。 等你在沙發坐下後， 她去廚房泡茶。 你環視著她的家， 一切都簡約， 溫暖， 每一件家具和擺設都是自由的， 可又和諧的， 驅散了你的拘謹， 就像你和她一起度過的時光。 大多時候， 你隻是傾聽和注視， 她的聲音， 她的眼神， 她的微笑， 給你從未有過的自在和舒緩。 那種感覺在第一次見麵時就有了， 在她攪動咖啡後抬起頭的一瞬間。 當她和你的目光交匯時， 你仿佛聽到了約書亞·貝爾拉著他改編的德彪西的小提琴曲【亞麻色頭發的少女】， 雖然你眼前是烏黑的長發， 烏黑的雙眼。 你聽到自己的心跳緩下來， 聽到她說 “我年輕時很喜歡旅行， 隨著樂團去看不同的風景。 現在卻喜歡呆在家裏， 教不同的學生”。 你才留意到她的指甲修剪的非常短, 沒有塗指甲油， 隻有自然的潤澤。 第二次見麵時， 你談到了自己失敗的婚姻。 她沒有言語， 隻是伸出左手， 輕柔地摩挲著你的手背。 你能感到她指尖的繭。 然而就是那微微粗糙的繭輕輕地揉搓著你的手背， 產生了微妙的溫暖， 撫去了你所有的失落和傷感。
收回目光， 你發現沙發旁的角桌上放著一個紅褐色的相框, 相框裏左半邊嵌著一首詩， 右半邊是一幅相片。 詩是用炭筆手寫在乳黃色的紙上， 雖是流暢的行書， 卻透著溫柔和細膩。 你讀到：
時間的灣
我逆著光陰的河
去拾回散落的記憶
渾濁還是清澈
都來自我的心底
不知哪裏來的風
把我吹進了河灣
晨霧迷住了我的烏篷
和雙眼
風中飄著的春紗
帶來我熟悉的溫暖
而河畔搖曳的鳶尾花
讓我又聽見你的歡顏
而右半邊的相片裏， 藍天下， 一塊昂起的像鷹頭的岩石， 而那鷹的嘴， 揚起， 刺向藍天。 相片的中央是一個少女坐在鷹嘴上， 雙手扶在岩石的邊緣， 雙腳蕩在藍天裏。 她正扭過頭來， 對著鏡頭燦爛地笑著。 右側的背景裏， 一個大男孩， 戴著一副太陽鏡， 坐在岩石中央， 也燦爛地笑著。 你看到太陽鏡後一雙清澈， 充滿期盼的眼睛。
gpt
In that year, you were eighteen years old, at Horseshoe Bend, where the Colorado River makes an almost 360-degree turn. The sky was deep blue, without a hint of clouds, and the river at Horseshoe Bend was even bluer than the sky. Red-brown cliffs surrounded the winding river, casting their ancient reflections on the water's surface. Standing on the edge of the cliff, you leaned forward cautiously, looking down at the seemingly motionless river. Yes, you vividly remember that at that time, you couldn't perceive any movement in the river, and time seemed to stand still for you.
You ascended to the highest point of the Horseshoe Bend scenic area, the highest point accessible to humans. A massive rock formed a hill about 50 meters high, with a smooth slope and a protruding part in the middle, much larger at the top than at the base. The suspended portion slightly tilted upward, resembling an eagle's head emerging from the slope, with the eagle's beak piercing towards the sky. You were surprised at why this rock had survived alone through centuries of erosion, why the wind, and time, would pass by it.
There was a slight disappointment; a girl of your age had already sat on the eagle's beak, a coveted spot for everyone visiting. You could only guess her age based on her hairstyle, figure, and clothing, maybe even the fragrance carried by the wind. Standing a few meters away from her, you watched, hoping she would leave soon. However, her silhouette captivated you; she didn't move, didn't make a sound, just serenely gazing into the distance, blending into the azure sky. An impulse surged within you to join her, to quietly freeze time together.
Friends called your name, reminding you to hurry back to Las Vegas to see "Love" by the Beatles tonight. A friend pointed to the watch on their wrist, then raised a camera to signal for a photo. You reluctantly sat down and quickly left Horseshoe Bend with your friends, heading towards the parking lot. Glancing back, you noticed the girl had left at some point. Amidst the passing crowd, you searched for the girl with the calm and innocent face, blending into the blue sky.
...
Finally, your dragging friend sent you the photos. In the picture, you were smiling naturally, a rare sight. Your friend's photography skills were impressive, capturing the deep blue sky, the red-brown rocks, and the girl on the left side of the frame. What surprised you was that the girl had turned her head towards the camera. You vaguely saw a serene, innocent smiling face.
...
This was your third date with her, also the first dinner. After a twenty-year marriage with your ex-wife came to an end, eager friends had introduced you to about ten potential matches. She was the first one you progressed to a third date with. After leaving the restaurant, she invited you to her place for tea, saying it was very close. Although somewhat unexpected, on this warm summer night at 8 o'clock, it felt more like a cozy afternoon for tea.
Turning a few street corners, you arrived at her house. The soft light of the setting sun embraced the milky white porch. After sitting on the sofa, she went to the kitchen to make tea. You surveyed her home—simple, warm, each piece of furniture and decoration free yet harmonious, dispelling any awkwardness, much like the time you spent together. Most of the time, you just listened and observed—her voice, her gaze, her smile, giving you an unprecedented sense of ease and tranquility. That feeling had emerged from the first meeting, in the moment she looked up after stirring the coffee. When her gaze met yours, you almost heard Joshua Bell playing his adaptation of Debussy's "The Girl with the Flaxen Hair," even though before you was a girl with jet-black hair and eyes. You felt your heartbeat slowing down, hearing her say, "I used to love traveling when I was young, following the orchestra to see different sceneries. Now, I prefer staying at home, teaching different students." It was then that you noticed her nails were trimmed very short, no nail polish, just a natural sheen. On the second meeting, you talked about your failed marriage. She didn't say anything; she just extended her left hand, gently caressing the back of yours. You could feel the calluses on her fingertips. Yet, it was that slight roughness that gently rubbed against the back of your hand, creating a subtle warmth, wiping away all your sorrow and sadness.
Redirecting your gaze, you noticed a red-brown frame on the side table beside the sofa, containing a poem on the left half and a photo on the right. The poem, written with charcoal on pale yellow paper in a flowing script, exuded gentleness and delicacy. You read:
The Bay of Time
I go against the river of time
To retrieve scattered memories
Muddy or clear
All come from the depths of my heart
I don't know where the wind comes from
It blows me into the bay of time
Morning mist blurs my black umbrella
And my eyes
In the wind floats the spring gauze
Bringing me familiar warmth
While the irises swaying by the river
Let me hear your joyous laughter again
In the right half of the frame, under a blue sky, a rock lifted like an eagle's head, and the eagle's beak pointed towards the sky. In the center of the photo, a girl sat on the eagle's beak, hands resting on the edge of the rock, feet dangling in the blue sky. She turned her head towards the camera, smiling brightly. On the right side of the background, a boy wearing sunglasses sat in the middle of the rock, also smiling radiantly. You saw a pair of clear, expectant eyes behind the sunglasses.
