Suck the fragrance, composition. 8 words, high school
Suck the fragrance of China
I began to like flowers, or from that incident.
it was a summer day and it was sultry. After dinner, I went for a walk in the park and looked at the stars twinkling in the sky, like small lanterns. They all seem to be blinking at me. I can't help smiling. Sitting on the bench next to me, a breeze blew with a fragrance. I opened my arms and exhaled the unique freshness of the suburbs. Unconsciously, I held the stem of Xiaohua with my hand, ready to pinch it off. At this critical juncture. A slender voice came: "Don't pick it!" My hand shrank back like an electric shock. Looking inside, she is a thin little girl like an elf.
"can you not pick it?" The voice is very thin, with a little pleading. I vaguely remember that this flower was planted by an old woman. What does it care? "I want you to manage!" I reached out and picked this flower. Looking at this small trophy, a little joy welled up in my heart. But when she saw it, her look changed greatly. She grabbed the flowers and cried. How so impulsive, but I have a little regret.
the next day, it was sunny. Bathed in the warm sunshine, I feel particularly comfortable. I came to the park again, hoping to meet her here. What a coincidence! She is watering the flowers. I quickly apologized: "Last night, I was really sorry, I didn't know you raised this flower." She didn't speak, just gave a miserable smile. I don't understand: "I remember this flower was planted by an old grandmother ..." "She is my grandmother!" She answered first. I seem to have hurt her scar, and her face added a sadness and stopped watering the flowers. She said faintly: "Grandma died two years ago, and her task was completed by me ... She liked flowers very much, so she planted this park full and watered them every day, and flowers became a part of her life. Now that grandma is dead, the only thing that lasts is her favorite flower. "
after listening to this, I felt extremely ashamed.
soon, I started school and seldom met her. One day, she gave me a squashed flower like a specimen. It turned out to be the life I killed. I gradually fell in love with flowers and learned to make specimens. I put it in the page, and the thick aroma surrounded the whole book and filled my body and mind. Every time I see someone stepping on or picking flowers, I also have her impulse. When I see flowers, can I unload my remorse and face it calmly?