时间的湾-1
那一年你十八岁, 在马蹄湾， 那个科罗拉多河转了几乎360度弯的地方。 湛蓝的天空， 见不到一丝云彩， 而马蹄湾的河水比天空还要蓝。 红褐色的峭壁环绕着蜿蜒的河， 在河面上洒下它们苍老的倒影。 站在悬崖边的你， 小心翼翼地前倾着， 低头望着那似乎纹丝不动的河面。 是的， 你清楚的记得， 那时你看不出河水有丁点儿的流动， 那时的你也感觉不到时间的流走。
你登上了马蹄湾景区的最高处， 是人能攀至的最高处。 一块巨大的岩石形成一个约50米高的山丘， 在它的光滑的的斜坡正中， 突兀地拱起一块， 顶部比根基大出很多， 悬空的部分， 略微向上扬着， 对着马蹄湾， 像斜坡上生出一个鹰头， 而鹰嘴斜刺向天空。 你惊讶为何这一块岩石独自在千百年的风蚀中生存下来， 为何风， 还有时间， 会从它的身边绕过。
你有些许失望， 一个和你年纪相仿的女孩已经坐在岩石的鹰嘴上， 每个登上来的人都渴望留影的位置。 她的年纪是你凭着她的发型， 背影， 和衣着猜测的， 也许还有随风飘来的清香。 你站在离她几米远处， 望着她， 希望她能早点离开。 可她的背影吸引着你， 没有移动， 没有声音， 恬静地望着远方， 融入湛蓝的天。 你涌起坐在她身边的冲动， 和她一起， 静静地把时间停住。
朋友在喊你的名字， 你这才想起要赶回拉斯维加斯去看今晚的【披头士的爱】。 朋友指了指腕上的手表， 然后举起相机做出照相的手势。 你只好就地坐下来， 匆匆给朋友的镜头留下一个微笑。
你和朋友快步离开马蹄湾景区， 走向停车场。 你回头一瞥， 女孩不知何时已离开了。 你在过往的人群里搜寻， 深蓝底， 红格子棉衬衣的背影， 和一张恬静纯真的脸， 融入蓝天的女孩该是恬静的， 纯真的。
。。。。。。
拖拉的朋友终于把照片寄给了你。 相片里， 你笑得少有的自然。 朋友取景的技术很不错， 湛蓝的天， 红褐色的岩石， 还有那个女孩， 在左侧的背景里。 让你惊讶的是， 那个女孩也正扭过头来， 脸对着镜头。 你隐约看到一张恬静， 纯真的笑脸。
。。。。。。
这是你和她的第三次约会， 也是第一次晚餐。 你和前妻二十年的婚姻走到尽头后， 热心的朋友已经给你介绍了十来个。 她是第一个你能前进到第三次约会的。 走出餐馆， 她邀你去她家喝茶， 说这儿离她家很近。 虽然有些意外， 可这盛夏的夜， 8点钟时， 你感觉更像一个暖春的下午， 还是喝茶的好时光。
转过几个街角， 就到了她的家。 夕阳的柔光正拥着乳白色的门廊。 等你在沙发坐下后， 她去厨房泡茶。 你环视着她的家， 一切都简约， 温暖， 每一件家具和摆设都是自由的， 可又和谐的， 驱散了你的拘谨， 就像你和她一起度过的时光。 大多时候， 你只是倾听和注视， 她的声音， 她的眼神， 她的微笑， 给你从未有过的自在和舒缓。 那种感觉在第一次见面时就有了， 在她搅动咖啡后抬起头的一瞬间。 当她和你的目光交汇时， 你仿佛听到了约书亚·贝尔拉着他改编的德彪西的小提琴曲【亚麻色头发的少女】， 虽然你眼前是乌黑的长发， 乌黑的双眼。 你听到自己的心跳缓下来， 听到她说 “我年轻时很喜欢旅行， 随着乐团去看不同的风景。 现在却喜欢呆在家里， 教不同的学生”。 你才留意到她的指甲修剪的非常短, 没有涂指甲油， 只有自然的润泽。 第二次见面时， 你谈到了自己失败的婚姻。 她没有言语， 只是伸出左手， 轻柔地摩挲着你的手背。 你能感到她指尖的茧。 然而就是那微微粗糙的茧轻轻地揉搓着你的手背， 产生了微妙的温暖， 抚去了你所有的失落和伤感。
收回目光， 你发现沙发旁的角桌上放着一个红褐色的相框, 相框里左半边嵌着一首诗， 右半边是一幅相片。 诗是用炭笔手写在乳黄色的纸上， 虽是流畅的行书， 却透着温柔和细腻。 你读到：
时间的湾
我逆着光阴的河
去拾回散落的记忆
浑浊还是清澈
都来自我的心底
不知哪里来的风
把我吹进了河湾
晨雾迷住了我的乌篷
和双眼
风中飘着的春纱
带来我熟悉的温暖
而河畔摇曳的鸢尾花
让我又听见你的欢颜
而右半边的相片里， 蓝天下， 一块昂起的像鹰头的岩石， 而那鹰的嘴， 扬起， 刺向蓝天。 相片的中央是一个少女坐在鹰嘴上， 双手扶在岩石的边缘， 双脚荡在蓝天里。 她正扭过头来， 对着镜头灿烂地笑着。 右侧的背景里， 一个大男孩， 戴着一副太阳镜， 坐在岩石中央， 也灿烂地笑着。 你看到太阳镜后一双清澈， 充满期盼的眼睛。
gpt
In that year, you were eighteen years old, at Horseshoe Bend, where the Colorado River makes an almost 360-degree turn. The sky was deep blue, without a hint of clouds, and the river at Horseshoe Bend was even bluer than the sky. Red-brown cliffs surrounded the winding river, casting their ancient reflections on the water's surface. Standing on the edge of the cliff, you leaned forward cautiously, looking down at the seemingly motionless river. Yes, you vividly remember that at that time, you couldn't perceive any movement in the river, and time seemed to stand still for you.
You ascended to the highest point of the Horseshoe Bend scenic area, the highest point accessible to humans. A massive rock formed a hill about 50 meters high, with a smooth slope and a protruding part in the middle, much larger at the top than at the base. The suspended portion slightly tilted upward, resembling an eagle's head emerging from the slope, with the eagle's beak piercing towards the sky. You were surprised at why this rock had survived alone through centuries of erosion, why the wind, and time, would pass by it.
There was a slight disappointment; a girl of your age had already sat on the eagle's beak, a coveted spot for everyone visiting. You could only guess her age based on her hairstyle, figure, and clothing, maybe even the fragrance carried by the wind. Standing a few meters away from her, you watched, hoping she would leave soon. However, her silhouette captivated you; she didn't move, didn't make a sound, just serenely gazing into the distance, blending into the azure sky. An impulse surged within you to join her, to quietly freeze time together.
Friends called your name, reminding you to hurry back to Las Vegas to see "Love" by the Beatles tonight. A friend pointed to the watch on their wrist, then raised a camera to signal for a photo. You reluctantly sat down and quickly left Horseshoe Bend with your friends, heading towards the parking lot. Glancing back, you noticed the girl had left at some point. Amidst the passing crowd, you searched for the girl with the calm and innocent face, blending into the blue sky.
...
Finally, your dragging friend sent you the photos. In the picture, you were smiling naturally, a rare sight. Your friend's photography skills were impressive, capturing the deep blue sky, the red-brown rocks, and the girl on the left side of the frame. What surprised you was that the girl had turned her head towards the camera. You vaguely saw a serene, innocent smiling face.
...
This was your third date with her, also the first dinner. After a twenty-year marriage with your ex-wife came to an end, eager friends had introduced you to about ten potential matches. She was the first one you progressed to a third date with. After leaving the restaurant, she invited you to her place for tea, saying it was very close. Although somewhat unexpected, on this warm summer night at 8 o'clock, it felt more like a cozy afternoon for tea.
Turning a few street corners, you arrived at her house. The soft light of the setting sun embraced the milky white porch. After sitting on the sofa, she went to the kitchen to make tea. You surveyed her home—simple, warm, each piece of furniture and decoration free yet harmonious, dispelling any awkwardness, much like the time you spent together. Most of the time, you just listened and observed—her voice, her gaze, her smile, giving you an unprecedented sense of ease and tranquility. That feeling had emerged from the first meeting, in the moment she looked up after stirring the coffee. When her gaze met yours, you almost heard Joshua Bell playing his adaptation of Debussy's "The Girl with the Flaxen Hair," even though before you was a girl with jet-black hair and eyes. You felt your heartbeat slowing down, hearing her say, "I used to love traveling when I was young, following the orchestra to see different sceneries. Now, I prefer staying at home, teaching different students." It was then that you noticed her nails were trimmed very short, no nail polish, just a natural sheen. On the second meeting, you talked about your failed marriage. She didn't say anything; she just extended her left hand, gently caressing the back of yours. You could feel the calluses on her fingertips. Yet, it was that slight roughness that gently rubbed against the back of your hand, creating a subtle warmth, wiping away all your sorrow and sadness.
Redirecting your gaze, you noticed a red-brown frame on the side table beside the sofa, containing a poem on the left half and a photo on the right. The poem, written with charcoal on pale yellow paper in a flowing script, exuded gentleness and delicacy. You read:
The Bay of Time
I go against the river of time
To retrieve scattered memories
Muddy or clear
All come from the depths of my heart
I don't know where the wind comes from
It blows me into the bay of time
Morning mist blurs my black umbrella
And my eyes
In the wind floats the spring gauze
Bringing me familiar warmth
While the irises swaying by the river
Let me hear your joyous laughter again
In the right half of the frame, under a blue sky, a rock lifted like an eagle's head, and the eagle's beak pointed towards the sky. In the center of the photo, a girl sat on the eagle's beak, hands resting on the edge of the rock, feet dangling in the blue sky. She turned her head towards the camera, smiling brightly. On the right side of the background, a boy wearing sunglasses sat in the middle of the rock, also smiling radiantly. You saw a pair of clear, expectant eyes behind the sunglasses.
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