时光抹不去记忆中的照片 Memories of Old Photos

行路人•Journeyer

一直想写一篇关于老照片的文章，因为那些照片都已经不存在了，在我童年时被滔天洪水卷走。然而父母年轻时、我们幼年时的模样，却长久地留在我的记忆中，时间之河永远也冲刷不去。

家乡是陕西延安，一座山区小城。小时候住在北关街的平房时，进门右边的墙中间有一个相框，里面好几张照片。上面一张是父母的合影，父亲轮廓分明、英气逼人，母亲面若桃花、娇羞动人。中间有一张父亲穿军装笔挺而立的单人照，一张母亲梳麻花辫含羞浅笑的半身照。最下面是一张我和弟弟的合影，我在右边，梳着两个小辫，露齿开怀大笑，而弟弟则是泪眼未干的忍耐，让人看得既好笑又心疼。这张照片是我记得的第一次拍照。弟弟害怕，哭着不肯配合，母亲替他擦泪，把他放在我旁边的高凳上坐好，摄影师阿姨摇着一个拨浪鼓逗我们说，笑一笑，照完相拨浪鼓就送给你们。我立刻咧嘴大笑，而弟弟也勉强止住了眼泪。等照完了我眼巴巴地看着拨浪鼓被放了回去，才明白被大人骗了。那时我可能三岁半，弟弟一岁半。

那个相框里可能还有其它照片，但我每次抬头看到的都是这几张。对我而言，这几张照片就是我的家。相貌俊美的父母让我自豪，也让我觉得自己和弟弟长得对不起他们。我一直暗暗羡慕母亲的高挑身材和娇美面容。

学前我和弟弟被寄放到外婆家住，墙上的相框里是不同的照片。我们上的是南关小学。每次回到北关自己的家就又能看到这几张让我倍感温馨的照片。然而，在我二年级时，一场洪水卷走了我们家的一切，包括这些照片。家具厨具都可以再置办，但照片却不能，时间不允许我们回到从前补照。从此，家就成了一个不确定的概念，这些照片也就定格在我的记忆中，如同我们失去的家。

我们搬了好几次家，但我最怀念的却是在北关的家，家里的那两缸热带鱼和墙上相框里的这些照片，还有父母精气神里透出的那股热情和活力。

可能因为搬家次数多，又在别人家住得时间久，我长大后对家缺少一种强烈的归属感。这些年在国外，数次迁徙，随遇而安，适应能力很强。我心安处即是家，我身在哪家在哪。

最近双节假期，母亲、二姨和姨父同行去看望他们的二大和姑姑，也就是我的二爷和老姑。在老姑家那个很古老的相框里，居然有一张我父母的合影，就是珍存于我记忆中的那一张。姨父手机发过来的照片让我泪湿眼眶，心中的感慨无以言表。我四十多年的念想啊。

父亲三个半月前病逝了，他的遗像我存在手机里却不敢打开看。他消瘦的脸上依然透着坚毅。他的精神不倒，但他年轻时的逼人英气却被岁月磨去。

我想念他。

我把这张合影拿给儿子和先生看，让他们猜照片里的人是谁。他们都说一个是年轻时的我，另一个看不出来。他们怎么能想到我父母年轻时也曾这么青春亮丽过呢！

我倒是越长越像母亲了。

Memories of Old Photos

I have been thinking of writing about some old photos for a while. They vanished in the monstrous flood that befell my hometown many years ago. However, the images of my parents in youth and ourselves in childhood have been carved in my memories, defying the tidal waves of time.

My hometown is Yan'an, a smaller city tucked in the mountains in northern Shaanxi province. When my brother and I were little, we lived in one of the townhouses that lined Northgate Street. On the wall to the right hang a large photo frame in which family pictures were neatly arranged. On the top of the frame was a photo of my parents, father with a well-defined face and determined eyes, mother looking pretty and sweet with a touch of shyness. In the middle, there was one of father standing straight in his army uniform, and one of mother fashioning braided hair and a gentle smile. At the bottom was a photo of me and my little brother. I was on the right wearing a big smile and two short pigtails, and my brother looking upset with teary eyes, which was funny and endearing at the same time. That photo was my earliest memory of photo-taking. Brother was a bit scared by the setting and would not cooperate. Mother dried his eyes and coaxed him into sitting on the tall stool next to me. The photographer shook a rattle at us and said, "Smile, and this will be yours." I gave her my heartiest smile and Brother managed to hold his tears. After the shooting, I looked with disappointment at the rattle that was put away by the photographer and realized we were deceived by adults. That was when I was probably three years old and my brother one.

There might be other photos in the frame but all I saw were those few. For me, those photos meant my home. I was proud of my parents’ good looks and self-conscious of the less impressive looks of me and my brother. I secretly admired my mother’s slim figure and pretty face.

Before school age, we were left in the care of grandparents, who had different photos on the wall. We attended the Southgate Elementary School. Each time we went back to our own home on Northgate Street, I’d notice those photos and the warm feelings in me of seeing them. However, a gigantic flood swept away everything we owned, including those photos, when I was in grade two. Furniture and cookware could be obtained anew, but not the old photos. Time would not allow us to go back in years to retake them. Ever since, home became an uncertain concept for me. Only images of those photos, like those of our lost home, were imprinted in my mind.

We moved quite a few times, but the home I missed most was the one on Northgate, with two aquaria of tropical fish and the photos on the wall, as well as the passion and vigor of my youthful parents.

Perhaps we moved so many times and spent so many long years in others’ homes when I was young that I never developed a strong sense of attachment to my home when I grew up. During these past years of life overseas, I moved from place to place but was able to adapt with ease each time. Home is where my heart anchors; home is where I am.

This week is the "golden week" of the National Day and Moon Festival in China. Mother and her younger sister and husband, that is, my aunt and uncle, went on a road trip to visit their uncle and aunt, whom I call great uncle and great aunt. In the house of my great aunt, right there on the wall in an ancient wooden frame, was a photo of my parents-- just the way it has been in my memory. When I received the photo from my uncle’s cell phone, my eyes were wet. There was no word to describe how I felt, after over four decades of missing and longing.

It has been three and half months since my father passed. His funeral portrait has been saved in my cell phone album but I never dare to open it. His face looked thin and yet firm with stubbornness. He was never beaten in spirit although his youthful vigor was dulled by time.

I miss him.

I showed the photo of my parents to my son and husband to test their eyes. They both said the female looked like a younger version of me but could not figure out the other person. How could they imagine the prime time of my parents!

I’m looking more and more like my mother at this age.