微信抖音 智能手机

推开斑驳褪色的木门，这里的热闹声却十几年依旧。一碗微辣刺激的三鲜米粉下肚，满脸油汗，饱嗝连连，泪眼模糊中，穿梭十几年的光阴，那个人依旧在这里，等我。

少年懵懂的我陪伴着奶奶在这不知名的小镇度过了童年，那时的我们没有微信抖音，没有智能手机，村巷口的几个小伙伴时常抱着一盒锈迹的玻璃珠，紧张认真地开始了竞赛，而奶奶总是抱着两个碎花瓷罐，踮着小脚，踩着露水，为我端回来每天的晚餐。

“哈！两连中，我又赢了！”矮小的我骄傲地站在他们中央，自豪地收回了战利品，奶奶站在夕阳下的巷口，温柔地叫了我一声，我只好悻悻地和他们再见，回家享用自己的晚饭。

他家的米粉纯手工切制，口感如糯般劲道有致，来上几口，爽滑醇香之感从口中流出，喝上一口鲜红飘油的汤底，不禁呛了几声，配上那惊艳的炒码与浇头，实属美妙如天仙。而奶奶坐在一旁慈祥地看着我，用一双温柔的手轻轻拂去我头上飘落的雪花儿，“乖孙，奶奶这儿还有，你要吃两碗”，说着便用筷子轻挑了几根儿盛进我的碗中。“不，奶奶，我只吃得下一碗”，灯花微微的庭院中不时传出几声温柔的笑，我的童年便在这温柔与鲜辣刺激的交织中度过。

后来我来到一座陌生的城市，撞见许多陌生的人。成长是一个可怕的过程，可怕到让我忘记了童年，忘记了曾经辛辣的味道，也让我忘记了那一双被花碗烫得通红的手指和那个温柔的人。

而现在我坐在这里吃着机器制作的整齐的米粉，伴着清汤中味精刺鼻的味道，我不禁回想起童年，那依稀的往事。都市，如同一头盘踞的猛兽，吞噬着每个人，然后再吐出来。我茫然地走向倾盆大雨的街头，如同每一个路人一般，黯淡无光。

“乖孙，奶奶再也不能为你端米粉了”，病床上的奶奶依旧和曾经一样慈祥温柔，却增添了几道深壑般的皱纹。她轻轻抬起那一双早已消瘦的手，如同曾经一般轻抚我的脸颊……

之后，我有幸再次回到故乡那街角旁不知名的米粉店，生意依旧火热，推开斑驳褪色的红木门，一碗微辣刺激的三鲜米粉下肚，满脸油汗，饱嗝连连。我仿佛看到了曾经的奶奶坐在对面慈祥地注视着我，泪痕模糊了我的双眼，是啊，她或许还在这里啊。

我看到街上熙攘的人群，我看到飞鸟在空中挣扎着飞过，我看到褪色的时间在流淌。在路上我学会了遗忘，只是有些事你忘不了，像某个相识的老脸庞，某一刹那喘不上气的心跳。你总是向前走，记忆却在原地停留。你向光阴招手时，它轻笑，却永远也不会再靠近你了。

英语翻译；

Pushing open the mottled and faded wooden door, the noise here has remained the same for more than a decade. A bowl of slightly spicy and irritating three-fresh rice noodles, his face is greasy and sweaty, full of hiccups, tears and eyes blurred, the person is still here for more than ten years, waiting for me.

I was ignorant as a teenager and spent my childhood with my grandmother in this unknown town. At that time, we didn’t have WeChat Douyin or smartphones. A few friends in the alleys of the village often held a box of rusty glass beads. , Started the competition nervously and seriously, and grandma always held two broken flower porcelain pots, tiptoe on her little feet, and stepped on the dew to bring back my daily dinner.

"Ha! In two consecutive matches, I won again!" I stood proudly in the middle of them, and proudly took back the spoils. Grandma stood in the alley under the setting sun and called me softly. I had no choice but to make peace. They goodbye and go home to enjoy their dinner.

His rice noodles are hand-cut, and the taste is as sticky as glutinous. After a few mouthfuls, the smooth and mellow flavor flows out of the mouth. After a sip of the bright red and oily soup, I can’t help but choke a few times. Stunning speculation and toppings, it is as wonderful as a fairy. And grandma sat aside and looked at me kindly, and gently brushed the snow falling on my head with a pair of gentle hands, "My dear grandson, grandma still has two bowls here, you want to eat two bowls", she just picked it up with chopsticks. Put a few roots into my bowl. "No, grandma, I can only eat a bowl." From time to time there were a few gentle laughs in the faintly illuminated courtyard. My childhood was spent in the interweaving of tenderness and spicy stimulation.

Then I came to a strange city and ran into many strangers. Growing up is a terrible process, so terrible that it made me forget my childhood and the pungent taste that I used to have. It also made me forget the pair of fingers that were reddened by the flower bowl and the gentle person.

And now I am sitting here eating neatly machine-made rice noodles, accompanied by the pungent taste of MSG in the clear soup, I can't help but think back to the vague past of my childhood. The city, like a beast entrenched, swallows everyone, and then spit it out. I walked towards the pour-pouring street in a daze, like every passerby, bleak.

"My dear grandson, grandma can no longer serve you rice noodles." The grandma on the hospital bed is still as kind and gentle as before, but with a few deep wrinkles. She gently lifted her thin hands and stroked my cheeks as she used to...

After that, I was fortunate enough to return to the unknown rice noodle shop on the corner of my hometown. The business was still hot. Pushing open the mottled and faded mahogany door, I had a bowl of slightly spicy and irritating rice noodles. My face was sweaty and full of burps. I seem to have seen my old grandma sitting opposite and watching me kindly, tears blurred my eyes, yes, she might still be here.

I saw the hustle and bustle of people on the street, I saw birds struggling in the air, and I saw the faded time flowing. I learned to forget on the road, but there are some things you can't forget, like an old face of an acquaintance, a breathless heartbeat at a certain moment. You always move forward, but the memory stays in place. When you waved to time, it chuckled, but it will never get close to you again.