Cold wind of early season

Last night, when I heard the weather forecast that this morning the cold wind would blow, my heart was filled with an indescribable feeling. Half doubt, half excitement, fluttering. No one could have expected the monsoon to come so early this year. Me too, and I was always in the mood of waiting for the first cold wind of the season as if waiting for a precious gift from nature.

Surely many people will agree with me that the first cold wind of the season is the most beautiful weather in the transition from autumn to winter. The sky is still sunny but the sunlight is gentle, enough for us to feel a little warmth being wrapped around. And strangely, walking in the vast sunlight, the skin can still feel the caress of the cold air. There are not too many white clouds, just a few clusters drifting about as if they are sending off the last stretch of the road that autumn will leave soon. And people often mention a cold winter, the first cold of the season is the origin, the premise for that longing to last.

My mother said the early cold of the season makes the scenery poetic, the single-colored yellow chrysanthemum in front of the house becomes even more proud. I smiled slightly at her beautiful idea. But I remember more the day before the monsoon, a few days ago, my small yard was truly filled with colors. The color of the batch of sweet potatoes that my mother sowed in the sun before pouring into the earthenware jar. The color of the dark brown firewood, some covered with green moss before the August rainy season. The color of the sheep blanket, the tulle curtain, the shirt, the scarf of all kinds... Oh my, how can I remember all those dear colors.

The cold wind of the beginning of the season, I remember so much the figure of my father rushing from early morning to late afternoon, always working on the bamboo mats and curtains to cover the main house to the pigs and chickens' living quarters. I remember that my family was very poor at that time. In the winter, the wind blew fiercely, in the summer, the sun was blazing, the house was still a thatched house with bamboo walls plastered with mud and clay. The roof was covered with straw. The life cycle of a straw roof is very short, every winter it is tattered. Therefore, to prepare for the wind, my father had to work hard to add more bamboo mats and curtains. I also remember, really remember the soft three-knit straw mattress that provided a warm shelter for the whole family. The unique mattress that I will never forget in my whole life. Lying on the straw mattress, on top was a rush mat but I could still hear the rustling sound of the straw fibers rubbing against each other. In the cold wind, there was still a faint scent of straw and mud from my homeland.

The cold wind at the beginning of the season makes me feel more sorry for the poor students. The way to school seems a little longer, the footsteps are heavier because of the morning dew. I feel so sorry for the worries of the young souls: What will happen when winter comes without warm clothes, blankets, scarves, and socks? The wind blows cold into the classroom. We go to school with only short-sleeved shirts, the wind makes us shiver. The fear of winter coming haunts everyone. I still remember the "initiative" of the teachers at my school, during recess, they take advantage of the opportunity to light a fire to dispel the cold of the early winter wind. Both teachers and students sit together, around the crackling fire, telling stories and singing cheerful songs. In the eyes of the poor students is a small fire burning with many hopes for a brighter future.

The cold wind of the beginning of the season… sounds like the painful nostalgia of the old days rushing back, each gust of wind is a thread of memory that makes the heart full of nostalgia. Well, I tell myself to put it in a beautiful memory compartment! Because life is a series of colorful days, sadness, joy, happiness mixed together. Only when we know how to cherish, strive to rise up can we hope to find the source of light. Tonight I fell asleep in a dream, curled up in a warm blanket, longingly remembering a memory with the sweet monsoon wind…!.