1 . This was the first communication that had come from her aunt in Jessie’s lifetime.

“I think your aunt has forgiven me at last,” her father said as he passed the letter across the table.

Jessie looked first at the autograph(签名). It seemed strange to see her own name there. There was a likeness between her aunt’s autograph and her own, a hint of the same decisiveness and precision. If Jessie had been educated fifty years earlier, she might have written her name in just that manner.

“You’re very like her in some ways,” her father said, as she still stared at the autograph.

“I should think you must almost have forgotten what Aunt Jessie was like, dear,” she said. “How many years is it since you last saw her?”

“More than forty,” her father said. “We disagreed. We invariably disagreed. Jessie always prided herself on being so modern. She read Darwin and things like that. Altogether beyond me, I admit.”

“And so it seems that she wants to see me.” Jessie straightened her shoulders and lifted her head. She was excited at the thought of meeting this mythical aunt whom she had so often heard about. Sometimes she had wondered if the personality of this remarkable relative had not been a figment(虚构) of her father’s imagination.

But this letter of hers that now lay on the breakfast table was admirable in character. There was something of intolerance expressed in its tone. It was just like what her father had told her.

Mr. Deane came out of his past memories with a sigh.

“Yes, yes; she wants to see you, my dear,” he said. “I’ve heard she has set up a school and helped many youngsters. I think you had better accept this invitation to stay with her. If she took a fancy to you, you could get a better education…”

He sighed again, and Jessie knew that for the hundredth time he was regretting his own past weakness...

2 .

Every summer he came to our village on his cycle. The cycle was full of coconuts and on the handle was his small red money purse and the machete that he used to cut the coconuts. He always wore a blue and black checkered lungi and was known for his toothless smile that tended to turn into a slight laugh.

He often announced the arrival of summer by standing under our village’s Gulmohar tree. During the first touch of summer, red flowers fell on the ground and welcomed him to our village; soon the red flowers turned into long sword-like fruits which hung above his head as he cut the coconuts.

He never ate anything except paan (a kind of leaf), which he always could be seen chewing, and he just sat under the tree until someone approached him. Then, he would choose the best coconut, and with expert skill, carve it so that the person could drink the satisfying liquid.

For me he was an artist who knew how to carve the green coconut into an oasis (绿洲) of relief. He was the coconut whisperer, who knew which one had more water. Nobody ever talked about him, for he was of no significance to the busy people of our village. His existence will forever be tied to the shadow of the Gulmohar tree.

Nowadays, he doesn’t do much business. Kids no longer care for coconut water; they want soft drinks. I know his weak body will fail him in the coming years. He will not visit our village, and with him, all my memories of summer will disappear. No one will miss him apart from the Gulmohar tree, his only friend.

My friends and I have stayed in the same village our whole life. Now, in our mid-thirties, we don’t have time to talk about our childhood and the lite beyond the chains of society.

I’ve made up my mind. Tomorrow I will talk with him. I will listen to him and preserve him in my memory. I will tell him how important he was for me, how he defined summer for me, and, during every summer, how he nurtured (滋养) me with the coconut water, which was filled with his love. I will take in his smile one last time—a remembrance of my childhood innocence. I will hug him until my tears mix with his.