I miss go to dali.

I have visited the old man three times, and no matter which experience, I still remember it vividly.

The Peach Blossom Garden in my memory is hidden in a small town in western Hunan. This is a quiet and peaceful place. Whenever I put Border Town between my lips and teeth, it is like touching a delicate poem, and my thoughts fly to the depths of my memory, "in a handful of Saxifraga" and "to an unknown person".

But when I woke up in my father's car, I found myself in a beautiful place, at least eight years ago. Eight years ago, I was a flower in the sun, with pure and clear memories.

I am often proud of my half "Hunan descent", which is a place where "romantic figures" come forth in large numbers, so-called "outstanding people". My grandmother is a kind old man who lives in a wooden and bamboo building and shakes a cattail fan. It seems that she has lived there all her life and will never leave there. My grandfather is more peaceful than her, and my mother, who loves to fly to the north, reminds me of the simple old man who supported her.

That year, we went to visit relatives in Phoenix and stayed in a small gray building not far from the mountain for several nights. The small building is not near the water, but there is a small reservoir or pond not far away, surrounded by knee-high grass plants. My cousins and I pretended to fish and threw fishing rods without bait into the water, splashing a lot of rain. I remember there is also a small bluestone, which I like very much. If I had an oil-paper umbrella and it was drizzling, I would dress up as a Jiangnan woman again and again.