As one grows older, he or she is apt to feel nostalgic. I miss weeping willows having no business with my age, but because I can no longer see them.
What a kind ordinary tree weeping willows once were. By the riverside of my hometown when I was a child, and on the bank of the Lake Unnamed on the college campus when I was young, they were in rows and rows, far and near, high and low, almost everywhere my eyes could reach out to. With spring and summer, their long and lush twigs were hanging down chicly and lightheartedly, like green curtains, swinging gracefully with the wind. I don't even remember if I had ever attentively looked at them.
I tramped hither and thither, and from the east to the west of the global village. One day, I was suddenly aware that I have not seen weeping willows for a long time. I was driving through every street and to each cul-de-sac of the community to search for them, unfortunately did not catch sight of any. What made me unendurable was I was told that no weeping willows can live in the place where I stay. This fact dropped me into the abyss of despair in that moment.
Until then, I began to blame myself for having resided in a land without weeping willows. I wonder if the weeping willows could had lingered on holding me back sometime or somewhere but the guy in a rush did not notice their unwillingness to part.
There was nothing wrong with the weeping willows. It was me being engaged in so-called pursuits, before I knew it, abandoned the weeping willows, the green field has been at the bottom of my heart and accompanied my soul ever since.
I am missing the weeping willows.
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