风一吹，往事就醒了

每年临近过年的时候，寒风一起，我的记忆总会被拉回到很远的地方。那是一种不需要刻意寻找的回忆，只要风一吹、天一冷，它就悄然浮现。街道上的灯光、空气里的年味，都像一把钥匙，轻轻打开了我通往童年的那扇门。
Every year, as the Lunar New Year approaches and the cold wind begins to blow, my memories are inevitably drawn back to a distant place. It is not something I consciously seek; the moment the wind turns cold, the past quietly emerges. The streetlights and the familiar scent of the New Year feel like a key, gently unlocking the door to my childhood.

小时候的过年，总是充满了神秘感和仪式感。烧香、祭拜、磕头，大人们表情肃穆，小孩却在一旁似懂非懂。香火缭绕中，我对“祖先”“保佑”这些词并没有清晰的概念，却能真切地感受到一种庄重而安定的力量，那是一种被世界温柔托住的感觉。
The New Year of my childhood was always filled with mystery and ritual. Burning incense, paying respects, bowing—adults looked solemn while children stood by, half-understanding. Surrounded by curling incense smoke, I did not truly grasp concepts like “ancestors” or “blessings,” yet I felt a profound sense of solemnity and security, as if the world itself was gently holding me.

寒假里，我常常窝在被窝里不起床，窗外天寒地冻，屋里却是安全而温暖的。那时候最奢侈的事情，就是抱着手机看小说，一页一页翻下去，忘记时间。现在回想起来，那种毫无负担、无需考虑未来的日子，真的是一去不复返了。
During winter vacation, I would stay buried under my blanket, refusing to get up. Outside, the cold was biting; inside, everything felt safe and warm. The greatest luxury back then was holding my phone and reading novels page by page, losing track of time. Looking back now, those carefree days—free of responsibility and worry about the future—are truly gone forever.

七年前，父亲生病去世，人生仿佛在那一刻被迫换了一个方向。母亲跟着我来到城市生活，老家却渐渐变成了一个很少回去的地方。偶尔看到一些旧物，或在梦中回到熟悉的街巷，才发现“睹物思人”原来并不是一句空话，而是一种安静却漫长的疼。
Seven years ago, my father passed away after falling ill, and life seemed to be forced onto a different path from that moment on. My mother came to live with me in the city, while my hometown gradually became a place I rarely returned to. Only when I see old objects or dream of familiar streets do I realize that “remembering someone through things” is not an empty phrase, but a quiet, lingering pain.

如今的工作忙碌而琐碎，说不上顺心，却也不敢轻易放手。为了薪水，为了家庭，只能咬牙坚持。日复一日的重复，有时让我分不清自己是在生活，还是仅仅在完成任务。疲惫像一层看不见的灰，慢慢落在心上。
Now, my work is busy and trivial—not satisfying, yet not something I dare to abandon. For the sake of salary and family, I grit my teeth and endure. The daily repetition sometimes makes it hard to tell whether I am truly living or merely completing tasks. Fatigue settles quietly, like invisible dust, covering my heart layer by layer.

孩子渐渐长大，调皮顽劣，让人又爱又恼。看着他，我常常想起小时候的自己，那种不知天高地厚的天真。房子不大，一家人挤在一起，摩擦与争吵在所难免。妻子的唠叨，有时让我感到头大，却又明白她的焦虑并非无因。
As my child grows, his mischievousness brings both affection and frustration. Watching him, I often see my younger self—so innocent, unaware of the weight of the world. Our home is small, and living so close together inevitably leads to friction and arguments. My wife’s constant nagging sometimes overwhelms me, yet I know her anxiety is not without reason.

有那么一些时刻，我真的很想像鸵鸟一样，把头埋起来，假装问题不存在。逃避似乎能换来短暂的安宁，但内心深处我很清楚，问题并不会因此消失。它们只会在沉默中堆积，等到某一天，让人更加无力应对。
At certain moments, I truly want to bury my head like an ostrich, pretending that none of the problems exist. Avoidance may bring brief peace, but deep down I know the issues will not disappear. They only pile up in silence, waiting for a day when they become even harder to face.

人到中年，才慢慢明白，疲惫本身并不可怕，可怕的是失去感受和回忆的能力。那些关于童年、关于父亲、关于老家的片段，虽然带着忧伤，却也提醒我曾经真实地活过。也许生活无法轻松，但只要还能记得、还能思念、还能在风中想起过年时的温度，我就还没有被生活完全击倒。
In middle age, I gradually realize that fatigue itself is not the most frightening thing. What truly frightens me is losing the ability to feel and remember. Those fragments of childhood, of my father, of my hometown—though tinged with sadness—remind me that I once lived fully and sincerely. Life may never become easy, but as long as I can still remember, still miss, and still recall the warmth of the New Year in the cold wind, I know I have not been completely defeated.