Some books are strange; you don't find them interesting the first time you read them. But when you reread them in your mind one, two, or three times, you'll find that the book is really good, and you can't wait to take it out and read it again.
The same is true of some of the foods we eat. When you eat them, you don't think they taste particularly delicious, but after some time, you find them more and more memorable, and the more you think about them, the more delicious they seem, and you want to eat them again.
Some people are like that. When you're with them, you don't think they're good, but after you leave, the past replays in your mind again and again. Whenever you feel lonely or disappointed, those memories resurface. After so much time has passed, you realize that they were actually very good. When you look back and reflect on it, you realize that only they have stood the test of time.
Everything he did in the past was for your own good. How come you only realize that now?
What you didn't understand before, you finally understand now.
You used to argue with him every day, but now you realize that even when you're arguing, he's still adorable.
When we're with someone, we don't appreciate their good qualities. It's only after arguments, after breakups, or after meeting someone less suitable that we begin to reminisce. Unfortunately, that's all we can do then.
Those who drink red wine experience a lingering aftertaste, a pleasant fragrance that lingers long after the first sip has passed through the mouth and down the throat. Some books, some people, also have a lingering aftertaste. Do you remember that song?
Do you still remember how to sing your high school school song?
Many years have passed since I left school. The other day, when I met up with old classmates, someone suddenly brought up:
Do you remember how we sing our school song?
I'm ashamed to say I only remember part of it. We hummed along and eventually managed to hum the whole school song.
Everyone has sung a few school songs: kindergarten, elementary school, middle school, and university. During school celebrations, everyone sings the school song. Back then, no one bothered to study its meaning or try to memorize the lyrics; we already knew it by heart.
Many years later, when we calmed down, we suddenly remembered the school song we sang in our youthful days. We wanted to sing it again, but we had forgotten the lyrics and only vaguely remembered the melody.
After leaving school and growing up, in moments of despair, a familiar old tune suddenly echoes in our hearts—a peaceful, poetic melody. Isn't that our school song? In our carefree youth, we sang it every day. Singing it again alone, we find ourselves much calmer.
We've sung countless songs in our lives, and loved many different ones. Some we remember vividly; some we've forgotten; and some couldn't withstand the test of time. However, the school song is eternal. A school song can be eternal because it heals the wounds of growing up. (The last sentence, "Never to be realized," is a separate, unrelated statement and doesn't directly relate to the preceding text.)
When we were young, a few friends would sit together and chat, and inevitably, everyone would talk about their dreams. One of them said:
"Ten years from now, I will put everything aside and go back to school. Which subject I choose? It doesn't matter. At that time, I won't have to choose a subject for the sake of my future."
Many years later, when they got together to chat again, the same person said, "Ten years from now, I will give up everything to study."
It turns out that dreams are the things that will never come true.
We dare not make fun of this person, because we, like him, have many dreams that will never come true.
It's not that I don't want to achieve it, but reality is often another matter. We cherish a dream, and continue our daily lives, busy and bustling. When we're tired, when we're frustrated, remembering that we still have dreams gives us the strength to get back on our feet.
Some people say that to realize your dreams, you first need to make lots and lots of money.
Some say that to realize your dreams, you must first do many, many things you don't like.
Some say that to realize your dreams, you should find a like-minded partner.
Some people say that to realize your dreams, you have to be willing to give up what you have.
If the Earth were about to be destroyed, would you prioritize fulfilling your dreams or finding your lover? Is the staircase long or short?
The kindergarten I attended when I was little was at the end of a very, very long staircase. In my memory, that staircase seemed to never end. Back then, I would race with my classmates, trying to outrun them as we ran up the stairs. Our faces would turn red, and it felt like we had run hundreds of steps in an instant.
Many years later, revisiting the place, I realized that the staircase I remembered was actually very short. Why did I think it was so long back then? Perhaps it was because I was young and thought that every adult was very tall, every sloping path was very long, and the staircase was endless.
As people grow older, the stairs seem shorter; you can reach the end in just a few steps. The world that once seemed endless now appears quite small.
When I was little, my grandmother often took me to school, always walking ahead of me. When she reached the top of the stairs, I was still slowly walking with my schoolbag on my back. She would stand there urging me on:
"Hurry! Hurry!"
When I was in sixth grade, we climbed those stairs again. This time, I walked in front, and my grandmother followed behind. Every few steps, she would stop and rest. She would pant and complain:
"Why is this staircase longer? It wasn't this long before."
The stairs didn't get longer; she just got older.
Is the same staircase longer or shorter? The staircase hasn't changed; what has changed is the passage of time. The taste of home.
My 84-year-old aunt returned from the United States. A native of Shanghai, she fondly remembers the shepherd's purse (malantou) she often ate in Shanghai when she was young. This vegetable is wild, and although it can now be found in local Shanghai restaurants, it's all cultivated. Wild shepherd's purse may have become extinct. Last time my aunt came back, I took her to a Shanghai vegetarian restaurant for shepherd's purse, but she insisted that the dish wasn't shepherd's purse and didn't taste like what she used to eat. This time, I took her to a Shanghai restaurant where the cold shepherd's purse salad was the best I'd ever had. I fully expected her to be satisfied, but she said:
"It's delicious, but not as good as the wild shepherd's purse I used to have in Shanghai!"
I could only tell her, "Even if the shepherd's purse you're eating now tastes better than the shepherd's purse you had in Shanghai before, you'll still think the shepherd's purse you had before tasted better."
As people grow older, they often find the foods they ate in the past more delicious—a romanticized memory. Decades later, even if they have the chance to eat that same dish again, it can never compare to the past. What they're eating is the passage of time, the days of their youth. I'm almost certain she's forgotten the true taste of that dish. What remains in her memory isn't the taste of shepherd's purse, but the taste of her hometown. The farther one is from their hometown, the more beautiful everything about it becomes.
As we grow older, we tend to think things from the past were better. We often reminisce about the snacks we used to eat, feeling we can't have them anymore. With the passage of time, many things from the past have become wonderful! Only old flames are a bit of a disappointment. Is Mom's cooking still the best?
Many people love to boast about how delicious their mothers' cooking is, but I doubt how many of them are telling the truth.
A friend of mine always praised his mother's cooking, and finally, he invited us home for dinner. However, his mother's dishes were just ordinary, not as amazing as he described.
To think that mom's cooking is the best in the world is wishful thinking. I'm very clear on this point; my mom's cooking is terrible. On holidays, we'd rather eat out than eat mom's cooking. The moment she says she's going to cook, we all scatter like birds.
More than ten years ago, my uncle was seriously ill and stayed in the hospital for many days. The doctor said he was about to die. One day, while on his sickbed, he suddenly said that he really wanted to eat braised pork hock and asked my mother to make one and bring it to the hospital for him. Although my mother knew that he shouldn't eat fatty pork, she still made a braised pork hock herself and brought it to him.
My aunt told me this a few days ago. I secretly admired my uncle's taste; my mother's cooking wasn't very good, except for that one dish of braised pork hock. My uncle was delirious with illness, but he was remarkably lucid in this respect; besides, patients often lose their sense of taste due to excessive medication and can no longer distinguish different flavors. Before he died, he suddenly craved a certain food, not for its taste, but for a longing for this world. My father's cooking.
Everyone has a unique scent, and over time, that scent becomes a representation of them.
F said his father was a chef at a seafood restaurant. When he was a child, every night when his father came home from get off work, he could smell a strong fishy odor on him. They lived in a small room, and the smell made him feel very uncomfortable. His relationship with his father was very poor. After he got into university, he immediately moved out to live with friends. The father and son only saw each other a few times a year.
Later, his father fell critically ill and lay in the hospital. As he lay dying, he stood beside his father's bedside. The old man was covered in IV drips, and the strong smell of disinfectant filled the hospital. He could no longer smell the familiar, fishy odor he used to associate with his father as a child—the fishy smell of someone who had sacrificed so much to feed the family. He held his father's fingers to his nose, but the fishy smell he remembered was gone forever. At that moment, he realized that the fishy smell he had once so despised was actually quite fragrant.
His father is gone, but the lingering smell of his father's body remains in his son's mind, turning into regret. F said he can't forgive himself for telling his classmates when he was a child, "I hate the smell of my dad."