I think I have lost hope and patience with it. I often think of that glorious summer night six years ago, when the tall and strong green plants next door almost instantly turned into white, like a shy bride wearing a holy wedding dress-from its broad and tall leaves, more than a dozen white epiphyllum bloomed at the same time. They are like cranes floating from mysterious and dark hilltops, and occasionally land on mortal dust. At that moment, the noise of the city was dragged away, and even the trees stopped breathing.
My neighbor invited me to take a photo with her epiphyllum. The next morning, I got a small flowerpot with two newly cut epiphyllum leaves standing upright like bookmarks. It's the child with a pot of flowers. She just finished being a bride and then became a mother. Year after year, it is quietly dormant, and its branches are flourishing day by day, but it doesn't even mean to bloom. Gourd-shaped leaves spread irregularly around, unable to say a shape for a long time, occupying a lot of space. I can't put it on the windowsill. I pity that it is at least a life, so I can't bear to throw it away. I had to invite it to the balcony and find a sheltered corner. Only when I water other potted plants, will I use leftover water to irrigate them. I have broken my desire for it to blossom. I am hungry and let it die.
One summer evening six years later. Later, I thought that night did seem a bit weird. I seldom go to the balcony on weekdays except watering the flowers. But that day, like someone calling me over and over again on the balcony, the strange voice kept echoing in my ears, making me uneasy. I walked from the room to the balcony and back to the room from the balcony, and so on for three times. The third time I went to the terrace above, I went to water Holly again, then bent down and folded a yellow leaf for Holly. While I was doing this, suddenly a ball of goose yellow fluff "drilled" out of the corner of Holly root and flashed into my sight. I was almost shocked by the egg-sized fluffy ball-it looked like an elastic olive with a long green stem behind it, connected to the leaves of the pot of epiphyllum. The cone-shaped mouth of the fluff ball sticks out eagerly, as if to speak at once. ...
That's not a fluffy ball, but a bud-the bud of epiphyllum, it's true.
I looked at this unexpected guest who seemed to fall from the sky and waited for a while, not knowing what to do.
Later, with all my strength, I gently moved the flowerpot out of the corner and moved into the room carefully in a panic. Then hold your breath and look at the whole flower tree with wide eyes-yes, up and down, it only has this unique bud. Perhaps because there is only one, the bud looks big and full.
That strange evening, there was only one epiphyllum with buds in this pot. Because no one knows, let alone when it will open. The arched flower stems of snakeheads are shrouded in mysterious aura in the sunset.
I think I'll keep it open these days even if I don't eat or sleep.
Epiphyllum enters the room at about 6 pm. It's on the coffee table in the middle of the room. I look back every few minutes. Every time I look at it, I feel that the bud seems to swell up a little. The original tight-fitting outer bud skirt became soft and moist, like a maiden who appeared on the stage for the first time, slowly shaking off the skirt. Is Epiphyllum really going to bloom? Maybe it's just an expectation and illusion, but I clearly heard a slight and ethereal choking sound coming from the depths of the bud, like a prelude to a grand event, which filled the evening air. ...
It's getting dark. The goose yellow bud gradually became bright, crystal clear pure white. White is getting more and more mellow, like a thick cloud after rain, standing in front of us. At seven o'clock in the evening, I suddenly trembled, so strongly that the whole potted flower tree was shaking. At that moment, the closed bud silently cracked a circular gap, spewing out a rich fragrance and spilling it everywhere. Its stamens are golden yellow, covered with tiny particles, and each pollen is conveying a warm whisper. Olive-shaped buds gradually become fluffy and round, and the pale yellow needle-like whiskers that were tightly wrapped around the petals stood up like hedgehog's hair, and then slowly leaned back. During the whole opening process of epiphyllum, they are like the delicate and rigid ribs of a small white umbrella, exhausting the strength accumulated day and night, pulling and supporting the small umbrella to relax gradually. ...
Now it's finally in full bloom. Like a huge tongue-spoon-shaped white chrysanthemum, and like a saussurea involucrata; No, it should be said that it is more like a beautiful girl in white, walking barefoot from the clouds. From the moment the music started, "she" shook off her simple and clean dress with joy and began a slow and elegant dance. "She" knows that this is the only and last public performance in her life, and the God of Nature has given her too little time. Her public performance must be completed within a strict time limit, and she has no chance to make mistakes, let alone fail. Therefore, although "she" is a debut, every movement is skillful and perfect. The short practice for thousands of years has injected "her" with the genes of an excellent dancer. However, because life is short, her graceful dancing has touching sadness. The golden beard behind the petals hangs down from both sides of her white skirt like a gorgeous tassel. ...
It was after 9 o'clock in the evening, and this touching dance lasted for more than two hours. While dancing, "she" generously dissipated the essence stored in her body for many years, just like a chivalrous woman walking slowly to the execution ground. It was the most brilliant moment in her life, but the glory was only a moment, and death was coming; The glory of "she" is also death, and "she" reached its glory in the shadow of death. It is a kind of heroic and sad beauty, which shocked and disappointed the viewer. A flash in the pan almost changed the usual rhythm of time-the anxiety of waiting for flowers, making time infinitely long at that moment; Seeing the helplessness of life, time suddenly becomes so short; Only because the epiphyllum is fruitless, bloom withers, and there is endless loneliness behind it, the death of "her" becomes an unsustainable life, a truly desperate death form. ...
The blooming epiphyllum hangs quietly on the branches, like a frozen film.
But the dance of epiphyllum didn't end there.
That wonderful summer night, the girl in white waited silently for the approach of death with a proud and sad attitude. Among the exotic flowers and plants I have seen, it seems that none of them say goodbye like this. At that moment, I was more surprised than seeing it blossom with my own eyes-
"She" suddenly trembled again, opened her arms and gradually embraced her heart; "She" combed her blonde hair with slender fingertips and gathered her white skirts one by one; Then she hung down her snow-white neck and slowly climbed to the soil. "She" calmly and solemnly completed this whole set of movements, which took about three hours-the last reset performance at the end of the dance. The opening of epiphyllum is a dance, and the closing is naturally a dance. Petals are furry, and every movement is meticulous from opening to closing. "She" explained the true meaning of art and life for the last time with her light and soothing dance. If death is irresistible, why not make it beautiful? If death is inevitable, why not make it sacred? "She" must have chosen euthanasia as her painless way of death, so before the final limit comes, "she" has time to change clothes, wash herself and meet her death in a dignified and tidy way. "She" treasures death doubly because she cherishes life, giving people a feeling of being reborn again. "She" won't throw the remains of petals on the ground sadly like those colorful flower trees; "She" will restore her appearance to the original state before her death, just as charming and noble as she was before her death. ...
Perhaps only epiphyllum with the shortest flowering period in the world has this attitude of death.
By midnight, the petals of the blooming epiphyllum had been completely folded and folded into olive-shaped buds again, only slightly tired, and the slender stems hung softly, lining a white shadow under the glass counter, like the reflection of a swan floating on the lake. The white color of the bud is lighter than before, and the residual fragrance in the air has absorbed its milky pulp. Therefore, the bud is more like an immortal fruit, leaving the soul of the flower inside; However, the rib-like hair supporting the petals of Epiphyllum miraculously turned a somersault, turned a circle of 180 degrees, and firmly wrapped the heavy bud in the palm again. Like a peacock after opening the screen, the brocade-like feathers are gathered together.
It seems to be asleep, quiet and serene, without withering, pain and sadness; It is an immortal soul, what it looked like when it came last night, and what it still looks like now. Many days later, I got the photos taken that night. It looks almost the same before and after flowering. Neither born nor extinct, neither blooming nor withering-just like this living bud, it has never bloomed, and may bloom again soon. It is always in bud and has no regrets; Just wait for its time, and it will wake up when it opens its eyes.
I accompanied it for a long time, accompanied the epiphyllum through the whole process from birth to death and the passage of life. "A flash in the pan", a derogatory old saying, has become an echo drifting away in this summer night. We are always eager for a long and eternal life, and we are afraid of death and dissolution; But that may be a misunderstanding of life-many times, the value of life is not based on time.
I understand why the epiphyllum stubbornly called me again and again on the balcony that night. I am the only lucky dancer in one last dance. After it left, I waited for the green stage with clear water and sunshine, waiting for it to tour again next year.