本文发表在 rolia.net 枫下论坛I always hesitate to write down my own stories. I know my life is settled in the current way and I don’t want to bring any regrets or worries. (It is not my character) But the stories come back to me so often, they hover upon my face, hardly to forget. I write poems as many as I can. Poem is the proper way to drag my feeling out of the shadow. And most important, the reader only can guess or image the scenes behind. No exact interpretation which I hide in these stories.

Before I left our city for Canada, I struggled on decision: to see him or not. My sister warned me not to disturb his life. She suffered too much from her own broken marriage. So she didn’t want me to ripple others life. “It has been too many years. Forget it. Good for you and him.” That I knew better than her years long ago when I called for our relation to break up. But I didn’t expect the desire to see him, to know the love one in his heart is still me, so strong, so vulnerable. I could not take it easy. You may blame me selfish, I just couldn’t help to hope I am still the one he love so much that is never changed deep there. In my fragmental memory, I wonder he may be as same as me with buried dreams.

I left there without seeing him, although in the train I hunter for his figure. I wondered if he knew I came back and then left soon. I wondered if his handsome looking carved by sadness, If he still frown a lot. The railway brought me faraway, my tears rolling down with each whistle. How could it be so fragile when just looking back? How could the lines in parallel never cross?

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