椅子的回忆
When I was young, a tree often kept me company. It had many names, and many friends. At first, we simply called it “Little Tree.” It was thin and frail, only slightly taller than I was, shorter even than some of the children. We would hide together in a soft-lit corner, far from the blazing heat of noon, letting only the western sun’s gentle afterglow brush our shoulders—just warm enough.
As dusk approached each day, a noisy group of children would arrive in their matching uniforms, red scarves tied in every imaginable fashion. In this sea of slides and swings, my arms became the sails of their schoolbag ships. Whoever lost a game would sulk into my company. Columbus had discovered a new continent—my little crewmates discovered the Little Tree. But the tree was too small. The children loved to circle around it, gently touching its tender green buds and asking when it would grow up.
Slowly, the tree grew taller than all the children, and their questions grew tangled like its branches. The tree became a keeper of their secrets. They no longer measured its height but sat beneath it, tracing names into the dirt and softly wiping them away, as if that could bury a bit of what they couldn't say aloud.
Together, we watched emotions take root and spread. Unfamiliar faces became familiar, then unfamiliar again. Stories were printed and copied, page after page.
Some waved and laughed as they left, promising, “See you tomorrow”—but never returned. Come autumn, a new group of faces would appear beneath the tree. Their red scarves were still tied in peculiar ways, while traces of those before them remained—etched into the rusting slide rails, or marked on me in faded pencil lines.
Later, I overheard talk about the school being relocated, or the land repurposed for housing. Fewer children came. No one picked up fallen leaves to mimic fireworks anymore. The paint peeled from the handrails. The swing’s chains swayed gently in the wind, waiting for a push that never came.
Then came the men in suits and reflective vests. I understood what that meant—just as I once understood what it meant when I was placed here, years ago. After that, the children never returned.
Instead came strangers, occasionally stopping at the playground’s edge, speaking in hushed tones. Some scribbled on papers, others traced invisible lines across the ground, as if reimagining the place entirely.
One day, more people arrived—so did the machines. The sharp whine of gears shattered the long-held stillness. When metal met root, a heavy sound rang out, shaking dust into the air. Leaves fell in a rustling hush, like a sigh concluding the final note of a song. Then came the sound of soil being overturned—like a dry, jammed lock slowly absorbing oil, yielding only after repeated grinding.
By then, my memories had become slick with grease, the sounds around me blurred and indistinct. Only one moment remained clear—the moment I was severed from this land. Perhaps the tree and I will never meet again. But I still carry the traces of where it once grew.
在我年轻那会，常常陪伴我的是一棵树。他有过很多名字，也有过很多朋友。一开始我们叫他小树，他太瘦弱了，只比我高一点，比那群小孩矮一点。我们藏在光线柔和的角落，远离正午的炽热，只让西晒的余晖轻轻拂过肩膀，暖呼呼的刚刚好。
每到近黄昏，我们就会迎来一群叽叽喳喳的孩子，他们穿着统一的校服，红领巾却打得千奇百怪。徜徉于这片滑梯的海洋里，我的臂弯也成了书包的帆船，这时谁要输了游戏，就灰溜溜地作我的伙伴。哥伦布发现新大陆，而我的船员们，则发现了小树。可小树太小，小到孩子们总喜欢围着他兜圈，轻轻拨弄着他嫩绿的枝芽问什么时候能快快长大。
慢慢地，小树长得比孩子们还要高，孩子们的困惑也随之枝节交错，大树成了他们心事的收容所。他们不再比划他的高度，而是坐在树下，用手指在泥土里写下名字，又轻轻擦去，仿佛这样就能埋住些许不愿说出口的心事。
我们就这样见证着情绪盘根错节，陌生的脸庞变熟悉，又变得陌生，情节被打印，又复印了一页页。
有些人挥手大笑着离开，说着“明天见”，却再也没有回来。等到秋天，树影下又换了一批新的脸庞，他们的红领巾依旧打得千奇百怪，而旧日的痕迹，则化成了滑梯生锈的扶手、或是留在我身上的铅笔记号。
后来我听见过路的人们讨论学校搬迁，又或是这块地要造居民楼。不知不觉来的孩子少了，鲜有人再将落叶捧起放烟花；扶手的油漆开始剥落；秋千的链条在风里轻轻晃荡，再没有人推它。
再后来，出现了一批身着西装和反光背心的人，我明白这意味着什么，就像许多年前我被安放在这里一样。那之后，孩子们再没回来。
取而代之的是偶尔经过的陌生人。他们站在游乐场的边缘，低声讨论着什么，有人拿出纸张涂涂写写，有人用手指勾勒着地面，仿佛在重新规划这片土地的一切。
直到某天，更多的人来了。机器也来了。急促高鸣的齿轮声打破了这里久违的静谧。它碾过树根，在碰触到树的刹那奏出了沉闷的声响，震得尘土飞扬。枝叶坠落地面簌簌作响，用一句叹息谱完了曲尾。再是泥土翻起的声音，像干瘪的锁芯扭不到底，一点点灌入油脂，通过机械反复碾压，开锁的举动才变得顺滑。
到这，我的记忆也浸满了油光，声音糊成一团听得不太真切。唯一清晰的，是与这片土地断开的那一刻。或许我和树此生都不会再相遇了，可我的身上仍留有他生长过的痕迹。