When I returned home again, the tree at the entrance of the village was obviously old, huddled in the sun, like a lonely old man.
A cracked twisted branch. A few sparse leaves swayed weakly in the wind. That tree is really old.
I can't appreciate its mood in my later years. It has been reluctant to leave the world for a long time, what is it still missing?
Perhaps, like humans, it longs for immortality.
Or maybe, it is still waiting for something. The people in the village walked one after another and never came back.
For many years, it has been standing at the entrance of the village to welcome and see off. It has become a signpost for the villagers and the return home.
But now, my hometown has gradually become its own village. It cannot throw the village to the unwatched wilderness.
No one knows how many years the tree has lived. One year my great-grandfather's great-grandfather fled here and settled down next to the tree. Since then, there is smoke from cooking on the trees; under the trees, there is chickens crowing and dogs barking.
The tree supports the green cover and protects the ancestors of the village for generations.
The year I was born, a nest of magpies moved to the tree. My father said he had added good fortune to me and specially tied a red ribbon to the tree.
That tree naturally became my paradise.
The magical thing is that when you support others, the tree seems to have possessed the soul of a human being. When a villager passed away, a branch broke out.
That branch is the sacrifice that the tree gives to people.
Over time, today's tree has a strong shape and a strong bone. I know who it is standing in the cold night for.
In the dark, I became a tree, and my branches were held together with that tree.
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