I've always believed that each realm of memory has its own unique color. Winter is the color of kitchen smoke blurred in the early morning mist, autumn is the quiet yellow of leaves falling on the porch.
And May, the month that marks the beginning of summer and the end of the school year, is sunny. But not the harsh, scorching sun; rather, it's the warm golden sunshine of those last days spent in the schoolyard, listening to the resounding sound of the school bell at midday, and holding hands with friends in moments that seem to last forever.
There's something so different about May. The schoolyard is the same, the trees are the same, but suddenly it's quieter, the laughter is less frequent, and in each student's footsteps there seems to be an added, indescribable melancholy. The crape myrtle blossoms turn purple in the corner of the yard, the flamboyant trees burst into vibrant red clusters, and the cicadas begin their long, lively yet poignant chirping. Everything seems to have conspired, silently signaling the approaching season of farewells.
The final days of the school year always bring a sense of wistfulness mixed with gentleness. People look at each other more, but speak less. Conversations become shorter, while gazes linger longer and deepen.
There were tight handshakes, lingering shoulder touches, as if everyone wanted to hold onto one more moment before parting ways. Small pieces of paper passed from hand to hand, hastily written wishes, things left unsaid—all quietly remained in memory.
I remember one afternoon at the end of the year, the whole class sat down under a tree in the schoolyard. Without anyone saying a word, we were all silent for a few rare minutes, then suddenly someone burst out laughing, followed by a wave of laughter.
Back then, we didn't talk about the future, nor did we mention breaking up; we simply sat next to each other for a little longer, as if just being close was enough to create a memory. Perhaps it is these ordinary moments that become the things people remember the longest.
Schoolgirl/schoolboy crushes are pure and fragile, yet surprisingly enduring. They don't need a name, a clear promise, or a perfect ending. Just a ray of sunlight filtering through the leaves, a familiar sound in a bustling street, is enough to stir the heart, evoking memories of a bygone era that seems to remain perfectly intact.
I once kept a pressed phoenix flower petal in my final year of high school notebook. Every time I opened it, the scent of old paper mingled with the lingering memories of sunshine from the past, gentle yet profound. The petal may have faded with time, but the emotions have never diminished.
It reminds me of a naive time, when we loved without knowing what love was, felt sad without understanding what sadness was, and broke up but still believed we would meet again tomorrow as if nothing had changed.
I remember a friend secretly writing a very short line on the last page of my yearbook: "Remember not to forget each other later." When I reread it, I just smiled, because back then everyone thought parting ways was only temporary.
But as the years passed, some people truly went away, losing contact and never seeing each other again. Those small words suddenly became a gentle yet poignant reminder that some relationships can only be preserved in the memories of youth.
There were times I returned to my old school, walking slowly down the familiar corridors, glancing at the window that had been a part of my youth. Everything seemed to remain the same: the blackboard, the desks and chairs, the rows of trees standing silently in the sunlight. Only we had changed. We had grown up, gone our separate ways, carrying with us memories that could never be relived, memories that could only be kept safe and occasionally quietly revisited.
For me, the May sunshine is not just light, but also a very unique scent. It's the smell of the schoolyard after the first rain of the season, the scent of white chalk still clinging to my sleeves, the smell of old notebooks, and even the faint scent of someone's hair in the breeze. These scents are not distinct, not easy to name, but just catching a glimpse of them in the bustling street is enough to make me stop, letting memories flood back.
Many years have passed, and I no longer remember all the details of my school days, but I vividly remember the sunshine of those May days. I remember the dazzling graduation ceremony, the lingering glances of my friends, the hurried hugs, and the promise to meet again—a promise everyone understood that time could fade even the most radiant things.
May is the month of farewells, but also the month of new beginnings. Each closing is a new opening. Like the sunlight, brilliant and somewhat harsh, yet nurturing ripening seasons and silent but powerful steps towards maturity. And then, on the long journey of life, there will be times when we pause, only to realize that the May sunshine of that year has become a cherished part of our memories.
There are things that pass by and never return, but there are also things that become clearer in our minds the further they are. The May sunshine is one such thing, both distant and close, both radiant and gentle, enough to warm a corner of our memories whenever our hearts suddenly find peace amidst the hustle and bustle of the present.
There was a shade of sunlight that once shone upon my life, quietly yet profoundly, so that every time I remember it, my heart still warms as if I were standing in the schoolyard of some May, as if I had never left.
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