Last night I dreamt that I went back to grandma’s again. I pushed open the iron gate. The little stone path was covered with weeds and fallen leaves. The poor roses， once so lovely and lush， crouched at the corner of the yard， with its buds nipped， branches broken and several lonely leaves hanging motionless， worm-eaten， seeming to be subjugated to the whips of the wind. The mango trees had thrown out new low branches which stretched across my way. I came upon the small house suddenly， and stood there with my heart beating fast， my throat choked and tears coming to my eyes.
　　The house had run silent； ivy occupied the walls and tried to swallow the house in one bite. I stood there， vaguely conscious， gripping my fists， I could swear that the house was not an empty shell but survived and breathed as it had lived before. I saw grandma every here and there， didn’t I？Every corner of the house recorded our laughter and whispers about her first sight love. There was so much to recall， but the house was now only a witness of the past. Light came from the wooden windows； the curtains sobbed softly in the moonlight， but moonlight could play strange tricks with the fancy， even with a dreamer’s.
　　Some queer and unfamiliar feeling crawled up to my knees， inch by inch， onto my chest， and then into my ear； it whispered with a muffled voice—she’s gone. The truth injected into me bit by bit， and bit by bit， it sent desperation down my spine. I tried to call grandma， but my voice seemed to have abandoned me. Suddenly something sad struck me； tears struggled out of my eyes.
　　Grandma raised her six children on her own when grandpa passed away and never wanted a second marriage. I wouldn’t say she was strong and tough. Kind and gentle， these were the words that I could employ to describe her； her love to me was common and pure as be any grandma’s in the world. Go visit her as I may， she would always hold me tight in her arms， peruse me， and cook me some delicacies.
　　Time elapsed without a trace， and it stole her health， together with her youth， fled away， to a distant land where no one ever touched.
　　Then came the day of silence and sorrow.
　　Grandma was lying in the bed， under her was a snow-white sheet， and against it， her faces were pale. Tubes went into her left arm. Father made room for me， and I quickly sat close to her， my hand grasped hers.
　　“It does not hurt， my child， really.” said she.
　　Something moved， deep inside me. Some shapeless thing—more than a bone—tore at my throat， trying to make me cry. But I was not going to cry though tears rushed up and knocked my eyes. 　　But if I wasn’t going to cry， then why I could not open my mouth even though I wanted， at least I’ve tried， to give her comfort. I simply had to nod my head to say yes. So I nodded.
　　“It is nobody’s fault. Smile！” She uttered out these in a trembling voice.
　　I wanted to go on looking at her because I really wanted to； I knew I would no longer have the chance. But still I had to look away from her， for tears had finally overcome me.
　　“Don’t cry， silly boy.” she tried to smile. Tears came out， and slowly， slowly indeed， slipped down her cheeks.
　　I put my face to hers， and I could feel the tears warm—a warmness of love and of sadness.
　　“Let me kiss you， my…”
　　I made it for her.
　　“Be strong！” These were her last words.
　　Another sleepless night it was； the heavy rain was killing the last days of autumn， knocking at the window， trying to echo a sad rhythm. Silently I picked up myself from the bed， sat still， feeling alone.
　　【作者簡介】苏河，男，硕士研究生，深圳信息职业技术学院应用外语学院，研究方向：语篇分析与翻译，功能语法，英语教学。