It still took me a long time to fully accept the days without Dong Mingyue. It was like boiling water to make tea. The dry tea leaves gradually filled and rolled, boiling out of the surface when the temperature reached its peak.
But because the lid of the pot was closed, the surging was well isolated, and I could only hear some rolling sounds. It was probably my unconscious murmuring in my dream, or the sound of the pen tip and the paper when I wrote the words Dong Mingyue a thousand times. friction.
Yearning is like water, seeping into every corner of my life. When I drink milk tea, fold clothes, prepare meals, even if I sit quietly in the yard, the hot and dazzling sun can remind me of Dong Mingyue.
Rather than saying that I have adapted to not having Dong Mingyue around me, it is better to say that I am used to missing Dong Mingyue.
The spring of 1917 was the fifth year since I married into the Dong family.
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