As time goes by, the old loess still silently tells the story of the past

It all started from the path on the loess slope. The poplar trees on both sides of the path are no longer what they used to be. The branches are dry and most of the leaves have fallen off. When the wind blows, the dust on the ground seems to tell a story without an ending. That was my favorite path when I was a child. It was less than one meter wide and meandered through the fields beside the village to the old yard on the hillside. Whenever I walked on that road, the warm soil was under my feet and the sound of the wind penetrating the treetops was in my ears. I always thought of the past that had been diluted by the years, and the memories that had settled on this land.

When I was young, I always liked to walk aimlessly on this road. Every step seemed to be able to step into another world. That world was my world, full of childhood fantasies and unspoken thoughts. I don’t know why, when I was a child, I always felt that I was living in a distant place, and everything around me seemed to have nothing to do with me. At that time, I always liked to stay on the loess slope behind the house, drawing on the ground with a stick, imagining that I could find a kingdom of my own on this land.

However, time always slips away quietly. The ideals and fantasies of youth slowly fade away, replaced by the pressure of reality. The passage of time has taken away those once green dreams and the land that I yearn for so much. Back here, I am no longer the carefree boy, and my once light steps have become heavy. Standing on this loess slope, a complex emotion that cannot be explained surges in my heart, as if every slate and every dead tree here are reminding me that everything that has been gone will never come back.

The smell of loess is an irreplaceable fragrance. Whenever I smell this smell, my heart unconsciously rises with warmth. I remember when I was a child, my grandfather always liked to sit on the old stool in the yard, light a pipe, and talk about the past. At that time, I always asked him why there were so many stories on the land on the loess slope? Grandpa smiled and said that the land has our common memories, and every inch of land is alive and has stories. I didn’t understand what grandpa said at that time, but every time I stood on this land, I would unconsciously feel a sense of historical precipitation in my heart. That is an indescribable emotion, it is not in words, but in every step, in the wind of every fallen leaf, and in the rustling sound of every evening breeze blowing over the loess slope.

As time goes by, this loess slope is no longer as vibrant as it used to be. The former rice fields and wheat fields have long been invaded by some foreign species, and the wild flowers that once bloomed are no longer as brilliant as they used to be. The people here, like most villages, have begun to gradually disappear. Most young people have gone to the city, and only some old people are still here. Time is like a ruthless knife, and every knife has left traces on this land.

It’s not that I have never thought about leaving this place. Once, like those young people who left their hometowns, I longed for the brilliance and bustle of the city, thinking that I could find my own future there. However, when I really walked to the city, I found that the sky there was not as bright as I imagined. The steel forest in the city is full of strange faces and indifferent air, as if everything is forcing me to adapt and cater to it, and the years I spent with me on this loess slope have become a distant dream.

Some people say that homesickness is empty and not worth remembering. But I never felt it was empty. Homesickness is like the mist rising from the loess slope, which gradually dissipates with the first ray of sunshine in the morning, but it still takes root deeply in my heart. That loess slope, that small yard, those once warm days, in my memory, are always like a painting, quietly hanging on the wall, waiting for me to savor it at any time.

Looking back at this loess slope, I gradually understood the “story of the land” that my grandfather said back then. It is not a specific story, but a kind of accumulation, a silent power, carrying the common memories and emotions of generations. Here, every slate can tell the past wind and rain; every dead leaf can echo the laughter of the past; every breeze can gently bring up those forgotten days.

Today, Huangtupo still lies there quietly, and the years are like a slowly flowing river, carrying my thoughts and passing quietly. I know that I am no longer the innocent boy who left this land. After experiencing the hustle and bustle of the city and the complexity of life, I returned here again. Standing on this land, I finally understand that no matter how far I go and how many choices I have made, the attachment to Huangtupo in my heart has never changed.

As time goes by, the land of Huangtupo still silently tells its story. And I am still in its arms, looking for my own answer.