Life is written on the edge of floating clouds

 　　That year, the willows swayed in the spring breeze, the gentle sunshine of those tender years filled the air. We sat by the sports field, chatting idly, a lively group of us. What a cherished memory of youth! The weather of those days is unforgettable: the sky was as clear as a lake, a few white clouds drifting gently across it. Treasured in my memories, it has solidified into a beautiful image.

　　In the chaotic tapestry of life, how many fleeting events are there? Light, drifting, dancing across the sky. These things, important and unimportant, noisy and chaotic, one by one, have all passed. In the years we've been apart, everything has changed. When we reunite, we raise our glasses and laugh, forgetting all our worries.

　　A carefree, contented day, a moment of leisure, easily leads to flights of fancy. I recall the sentences I wrote years ago and my naive handwriting. The phrase "gentle moonlight" was heavily marked with an "X" by my teacher. I pondered it for a long time, not understanding why, yet I still stubbornly continued to use that phrase. When the night is still and quiet, gazing at the moon and longing for home, "gentle moonlight" always gently settles on my heart.

　　Organizing photo albums, large and large, each photo telling a story. I remember my father saying, "It would be nice to take one photo every year, to etch the marks of time." He took more than one; in fact, he took many photos in his youth, because he traveled so much, leaving so many footprints—from north to south, scenic spots, historical sites, pavilions. As a child, I memorized my middle school geography by looking at these photos; enough to piece together a map. A single photograph holds two eras: his youth, my childhood. The river of time suddenly flows backward in the photo album, a reunion across time, tears welling up.

　　The sea of ​​people in a city is wider than imagined. Saying goodbye at one intersection, perhaps meeting again at the next, perhaps never to meet again. Reunions are always unexpected surprises. Familiar faces, filled with the joy of separation, chat about old times and bygone days.

　　These leisurely conversations are wonderful. Memories remembered are precious. Even if forgotten, it doesn't matter; life is written on the edge of the floating clouds, vast and boundless, under the boundless sky.

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