The branches with dead leaves are left with small red lanterns in the orange yellow. From a distance, it looks like a neon light decorated with festivals. I gently close my eyes, my nose wings move slightly, and there is a faint sweetness in the air. It is the fragrance emitted by tomatoes when they are ripe. It lures me to reach out to pick it, wanting to protect the warm color in my palm, just like holding the sweetness when I was a child.
roughly counted, it has been many years since I have never picked the sweet fruit with my own hands. I always sit on the train passing by quickly, cross the high wall, and glimpse the figure of orange-red flashing by. Even in a moment, it is enough to evoke many old memories. It is a past full of satisfaction and sweetness, and it is also a paradise that I dreamed of returning countless times at midnight.
Deep in my memory, since I have memories, my home has been planted with various fruit trees, including water apricots in late spring and early summer, peaches in hot summer, fragrant pears in autumn, and apples in autumn. The most eye-catching thing is the tomatoes hanging high on the branches, covered with silver frost. There are no traces of leaves on the blue-gray branches, only those jumping round figures. Looking around, you can always attract your eyes as soon as possible. I can't take my eyes away for a long time, and I can't help but sigh. This year's good harvest, and in my eyes, the tomatoes with abundant juice flowing into the sweetest memory at that time. When there is a lot of harvest, the mother will bake it into a more resistant persimmon cake, and this sweetness will last the whole winter.
Memories are gone, childhood has become memories, but the sweetness at that time will always float in dreams every time this early winter season. I know that it is no longer an obsession with the taste, but a concern for my relatives far away. The longer I run outside, the deeper the thought of the return, the deeper the thought. Every grass and tree in my memory always brings a touch of homesickness, just like the string that leads to a kite. There is always the moment of taking the kite back, and I am the kite floating in the air, firmly held by the string called family affection, and there is always the day to go home. 
