As the wheels rolled over the familiar concrete road at the village entrance, the branches of weeds and shrubs nearly brushed against the car window. Returning after several months, the road seemed to have been stealthily reclaimed—hidden halfway by time. Withered grass filled the cracks in the pavement, and nameless saplings peeked out from the roadside slopes, squeezing the once-wide road into a narrow path. I gripped the steering wheel, carefully avoiding the wildly growing plants, feeling a momentary trance as if I could no longer recognize this place that held countless footprints of my childhood.

After unloading my luggage at home, my gaze instinctively drifted toward the back of the house. That pond, abandoned for many years, lay quietly at the edge of the village like a piece of jade forgotten by time. Every time I return home, I spend half a day fishing here, and this time was no exception. That night, I began planning for an early start the next morning.

Just as the sky began to brighten, I took some leftover rice from the kitchen to the pond to use as groundbait. I kneaded the rice into balls and tossed them accurately into the water, silently hoping the fish would gather quickly. After that, I turned to the vegetable garden to dig for earthworms, soon finding a few.

About an hour later, I picked up my fishing rod and walked to the pond. I hooked an earthworm and gently cast the line. Standing quietly on the bank, my eyes fixed on the bobbing float, memories began to flash uncontrollably through my mind. Time seemed to leap back thirty years. It was by this same pond that I, then only seven or eight years old, held a bamboo rod I had meticulously crafted myself. I had spent a long time picking out that specific rod from the small bamboo grove at my uncle’s house. The hook and line were bought with my own pocket money from the only small shop in the village. As for bait, sometimes it was rice, sometimes earthworms, and sometimes dough. Back then, as long as the weather was fair, I could fish from dawn until sunset.

In this way, one holiday after another passed quietly by the pond. After starting high school, I moved further from home, and my visits gradually became less frequent, limited only to long breaks. Each time I return, I can feel my hometown slowly changing; it is no longer the place in my childhood memories. People in the village are becoming fewer, and the uninhabited houses have been demolished and converted into fields for crops. Looking at the pond before me, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of abstraction. Perhaps before long, my family’s old house will also be torn down and turned into farmland. By then, I fear it will be hard for me to ever return here again.

Time always passes so quickly, making one feel it is never enough. In the blink of an eye, it was noon, and the sunlight grew scorching. I looked at the few crucian carp in the bucket; though they weren’t many, it was enough to satisfy my craving for fishing.

A few days later, I packed my bags again and set out on the road back to where I work. The next time I return home will be for the Spring Festival. I wonder what my hometown will look like then.

Date of Contribution: January 2026
Author:
Changzhou OPK Handling Equipment Co., Ltd.
Manufacturing Department
He Liyu/何立玉