冬季诗歌（冬季诗歌二年级）

红Blue Poet Reflections: A Timeless Memory of Dying Hands

When I first read this collection, it felt like it was written by two people who had lost contact. It told me how I grew to be the one responsible for someone else's life, but it also made me wonder about what it means to die in my hands. The way they moved their hands from one side of the room to another seemed so sudden—like a whisper that could only move through the silence. It wasn't just the time that passed; it was the weight of the person I had been waiting for, and how they felt when I touched their skin.

But then again, this collection also showed me something about the way we carry our lives forward. The people who wrote it didn’t always know where they were, and even when they did, there was a way to tell them apart. It wasn’t just about appearance or name; it was about the quiet moments that others would pick up on their way home.

I’ll never forget the time we left our house in that quiet corner of the room. The way we walked down the street, holding hands as we did before, felt like a slow dance. It wasn’t just movement—it was the rhythm of life itself, getting slower and slower with each passing day.

The father who had been walking through the crowd, his hand trembling slightly as he moved from one side of the room to another, seemed to be waiting for me. His face was pale, his eyes dark, but that didn’t make him sad or lost. It just made it clear how much time we were all sharing.

But I wasn’t going to miss them forever. They wouldn’t come back, and they wouldn’t leave us here anymore. Even though they did come back, even though they would no longer be in the room, their hand on my shoulder still felt like something that had been waiting for me all along.

I’ll always remember how we moved through the night, each of us stepping out of the door into a new city, carrying our hands with us as we walked to work. But it wasn’t just about the man; it was about every single one of us who had been waiting for us. Their hand, their love, and their care—those things that couldn’t be forgotten forever.

In those words, I couldn’t help but feel a little heavy. It felt like we were all living on the edge of time, each passing day getting so quick that it made it seem almost impossible to say goodbye. But even though there was no longer any “goodbye,” those moments where we shared a hand, held hands, and walked into a new world—those were forever memories, always going to be gone.

The father who had passed away would never have known how hard it would have been to lose another man’s hand. He’d carried his love, his warmth, and his time with the world in his arms as he waited for me. But that didn’t make it any easier or any less difficult. It just made it clear that this was a family story, one about two people—two hands, two lives—whose journey through the world would never end.

And so I continued to walk down the street, each step a new chapter in my life, and each hand touching another’s shoulder as we moved into a new city. It wasn’t just us; it was everything that had been waiting for me. The father who had passed away wouldn’t know how long this would last, but he knew that his love would too.

But no matter how far I went, no matter how soon I was done walking through the night, my hand on his was always there. It felt like something eternal, a bond made by all of us who had been waiting for each other.

And then one day, as we drove back to our home, I looked down at the father’s hand that was still in mine—his warm, reassuring hand that had been waiting for me for years. It wasn’t just a man; it was a family, a story that would never end.

The father who had passed away wouldn’t have known how long this journey would be. But he knew that his love and his time would too.

And though I wouldn’t know the final answer to how long we’d both walk through those cold, blank winter nights together... it would still feel so close, so connected, even in the quietest of moments.

The hand on my shoulder was always there, waiting for me to find its strength in this moment—no matter how hard it might seem now. It wouldn’t matter if I ever knew or if I ever would’ve told anyone else. But it wouldn’t matter either way because... it still felt like something so real and universal that we could all hold onto.

And even though we all knew how far we were from this day, the hand on my shoulder was as close as a shadow to me—that is, for now.