別故鄉 Farewell to my Hometown

 

去年返台，鳳山的文聖街老家是我活動的據點，出入高雄北上台北台中都以此為基地，總是將摩托車先從仁美沿美山路騎至老家停放，與二姑姑打招呼與大頭哥寒暄幾句再出發。而到了晚間，我再沿路騎回仁美，我騎得慢，單程約三十分鐘，如此往返無疑是費時的，但我喜愛這樣的費時，世界彷彿慢了下來，讓我再望眼審視沿路的建物，尋找建物之間愈來愈少的青田。兒時能見的水稻田，從路邊到田央到更後的田埂青綠一片，錯落在美山路沿線的民房與工廠之間，如今多已退縮至鋼筋水泥之後，眼前情景，令我不由得發楞而感嘆：說不定下次回來，一畝青田也望不見了。

Last year, when I returned to Taiwan, the old house on Wensheng Street in Fengshan became my base of operations. Every trip—whether to Taipei, Taichung, or northern Kaohsiung—began and ended there. I’d ride my scooter from Renmei, taking Meishan Road to the old house, where I’d park it before exchanging a few words with my second aunt and my cousin, Da Tou. Afterward, I’d set out on my journey. In the evenings, I’d ride the same road back to Renmei, always at a leisurely pace, the thirty-minute trip each way a deliberate indulgence. It felt as though the world slowed down, giving me time to inspect the buildings along the way, searching for the increasingly scarce patches of green fields between them. In my childhood, the rice paddies stretched from the roadside to the heart of the fields, reaching the distant dikes in a sea of green interspersed with scattered homes and factories along Meishan Road. Now, those verdant expanses have mostly retreated behind concrete and steel. Staring at this altered landscape, I couldn’t help but wonder: perhaps, on my next visit, even a single patch of green would be nowhere to be found.

鳳山是我對外在世界認知的開始，從鳳山國小、鳳西國中一直讀到國二，兒時記憶的鳳山存有珍貴的師生情誼。07年首次回台，特別去鳳西國中校門看看，自帶名稱的大樓一棟棟，班級一間間，桌椅一件件，穿梭其中的歲月一天天，那是我的純真年代。校門口竟遇見已退休的班導，他來學校做義工，修剪花花草草，帶我進入校區細說每個角落，提及我們那一班，幾位同學如今的現況。鳳西國中升旗台旁有一排菩提樹，多麼熟悉的菩提樹啊！當年不識得，如今若想起，菩提樹的旋律不禁湧上心頭。還記得最後一次返校日，獨自一人我去辦理退學領成績單，最後一堂課沉默無語，班導要我起來跟同學道別。當時太年輕怎知道別，怎麼好好說再見？一別經年，流轉歲月各自人生，我將再見藏在心底，沉默以後飛奔出教室，飛奔出校門口，一路穿越鳳山體育場這才平緩下來，懊惱不告而別。從此，不告而別，沉默竟是我處理感情的慣性休止符。

Fengshan was where I first became aware of the world beyond. I spent my elementary and early middle school years there, studying at Fengshan Elementary and Fengxi Junior High until my second year. The friendships I formed during those years remain precious memories. When I first returned to Taiwan in 2007, I made a special trip to see the gates of Fengxi Junior High. The school was now filled with named buildings, rows of classrooms, desks, and chairs, all haunted by the passage of time. That was my age of innocence. At the gate, I unexpectedly met my retired homeroom teacher, who was volunteering as a gardener. He led me through the campus, recounting every corner and sharing updates on former classmates. By the flagpole stood a row of bodhi trees, their familiarity stirring a tune in my heart. I still remember my final day at school: I went alone to process my withdrawal and collect my transcripts. In the last class, my homeroom teacher asked me to bid farewell to my classmates. Too young to understand the weight of goodbyes, I stood silent, unable to speak. Instead, I ran out of the classroom, past the school gates, and across Fengshan Sports Stadium before slowing down, filled with regret for leaving without a proper goodbye. From that day on, silence became my habitual punctuation for farewells.

依稀還記得，最後一堂國文課「詞選」，朱敦儒的相見歡，試倩悲風吹淚，過揚州！難以言喻的家國悲痛，「悲風吹淚」是朱敦儒對中原故鄉的道別。這四字對我觸動很深，其實風怎麼會生悲呢？那是人在思念，因思念而落淚，心愛的家鄉回不去，一種茫然於天地的漂泊與落寞，油然而生。我很幸運，國小國中遇見很好的語文啟蒙老師，她們都姓洪。洪老師在上完詞選之後，特意高歌一曲雨霖鈴，記得她在黑板默寫下雨霖鈴的詞句。直到如今，我還記得這句石破天驚的轉折：多情自古傷離別，更哪堪冷落清秋節？楊柳岸，曉風殘月….這是我第一次領悟到別離的美，別離的美在無奈的哀愁，從十指緊扣到不得不放手，其沈重是需要釋懷的，因此釋懷句「此去經年」，勾勒出寄望，情意自然，到了「更與何人說」信手反問，峰迴路轉，情意更深遠。如此摹景寫情的手法，感情在虛實之間跌宕起伏，卻又情景交融，令人回味無窮。雨霖鈴這首詞被我牢牢記住，當天放學後我去客運站下的鳳山大書城買了一本袖珍型的宋詞選，它的封面畫著纖柔綿長的柳，柳絮在風中，極簡畫風小橋流水，書名「曉風殘月」。這本書迄今仍在，當年我把它放入隨身行囊，陪我飄洋過海來開普，閒時翻閱，倒也記了幾句。 每次返台，總會去書局買些詩詞的書籍，買的純粹是情懷。

I vaguely recall the final Chinese class, where we studied Zhu Dunru’s Song of Longing: “Borrow the mournful wind to bring tears, as I pass through Yangzhou.” The phrase “mournful wind bringing tears” struck a deep chord. How could the wind itself feel sorrow? It was the human heart that mourned, shedding tears for a homeland that could never be returned to. That sense of wandering and loneliness in the vastness of heaven and earth resonated profoundly. I was fortunate to have inspiring language teachers in both elementary and middle school, both surnamed Hong. After finishing Song of Longing, one of them sang Rainy Bells. I remember her handwriting the verses on the blackboard, including this earth-shattering line: “Since ancient times, love has been sorrowful in partings, how much worse on a cold autumn day?” The imagery of the willow-lined shore, the morning breeze, and the waning moon was my first encounter with the beauty of farewells. The beauty lay in its poignant helplessness—from holding tight to letting go, a weight that demanded release. The phrase “This parting will last years” hinted at hope, and the concluding question, “But whom can I now share this with?” added depth and finality. This mastery of blending emotions with scenes left an indelible impression. I committed Rainy Bells to memory and, after school, went to Fengshan Book City to buy a pocket-sized anthology of Song lyrics. Its cover depicted willows swaying in the wind, a simple illustration of bridges and flowing streams, and bore the title Morning Breeze, Waning Moon. The book has traveled with me to the Cape, tucked into my luggage as I crossed oceans. Even now, I occasionally flip through its pages, revisiting verses I once memorised. Each time I return to Taiwan, I always visit the bookstore to buy collections of poetry—purchased purely for sentiment’s sake.

去年這趟，我到高雄遠百的誠品，面對一整書架的古典詩詞，我買了兩本袖珍詩詞，只有詩句並無賞析解讀。兩本書一個包膜，一本深藍一本桃紅，書名寫著「桃李春風一杯酒」，次行歷代懷人友情詩，我將封面拍給一位失聯許久卻又復聯的朋友，寫道：「對我而言，你就像是這首詩。」友人確實是這首詩也是這杯酒，只是我錯過了舉杯敬酒的機緣，所以第二本「眾裡尋他千百度」，只能放置心底闌珊處。那晚，失魂落魄終於懂得。不得不承認，歲月已遲而情感已鈍。

On this trip, I visited Eslite at Kaohsiung’s Far Eastern Department Store. Faced with an entire shelf of classical Chinese poetry, I bought two pocket-sized collections. Each contained only verses, with no commentary or analysis. One, in deep blue, was titled A Cup of Wine in the Peach and Plum Spring Breeze and featured poems on friendship. I sent a photo of the cover to a long-lost but recently reconnected friend, writing, “To me, you are like this poem.” The friend truly embodied that poem and that cup of wine, but I had missed the chance to raise a toast. Thus, the second book, Searching Thousands of Times Among the Lanterns, became a metaphor for feelings left unsaid, placed quietly in a forgotten corner of my heart. That night, I finally understood, much disheartened and adrift, that time had dulled my emotions and the ache of my longing heart. I must admit, time has grown late, and feelings have been blunted.

別離多年，情感不再椎心刺骨，它不強烈了；人生至此，不再捲起千堆雪。以前，我學不會安靜；從今而後，應該安靜了。我會安靜，我會沉默，我將不告而別也不再留戀。下次回台，再走過文聖街、騎經美山路，這顆心會平靜得不再跳動，舒張與收縮的數值虛幻到無法檢測。一畝青田的存廢，一本詩詞的情懷，與我何關？仁美鳳山高屏只是地方名詞，那裡交通複雜，氣候炎熱，空氣污染嚴重，拔地而起的平庸建築，五光十色的霓虹燈糜爛夜晚，常不見皓月當空。這樣的地方，為何而歸，為誰而歸？

Years have passed, and those emotions no longer cut as deeply. They have softened, no longer stirring torrents of passion. Once, I struggled to embrace silence; now, I seek it. I will grow quieter, ever more silent. Next time I return to Taiwan, as I walk along Wensheng Street or ride through Meishan Road, this heart will be so calm it will cease to beat, its rhythm of expansion and contraction so faint as to defy detection. Whether green fields remain or disappear, whether poetry stirs my soul or not—what does it matter to me? Renmei, Fengshan, Gaoping—these are merely place names now. Their traffic is chaotic, their weather scorching, their air polluted. The once-familiar scenery has been replaced by bland concrete buildings and garish neon lights. This is a place where the full moon is often obscured. Why, then, should I return? For what, or for whom?