As long as I can remember, there was an old pagoda tree in front of my house, with a straight and thick trunk and a canopy that covered the sun. Nobody knows how old it is. The spring of childhood is as pure as oil painting. At that time, the old Sophora japonica trees were full of vitality and flourishing leaves, and clusters of Sophora japonica flowers were full of happiness, which was our rations in the spring drought season. People hold long crochets, hold their heads high and look at them accurately. As soon as they lifted it, the twigs of the locust tree broke and fell, and the children ran to pick it up. In a short time, it was full of a basket. At noon, the smoke curled up, and the hot and fragrant Sophora japonica was out of the pot.

In my childhood memory, there was never enough food. Although I am over eighty years old now, when I think of my hometown, my heart is full of the smell of Sophora japonica. This old pagoda tree is my childhood companion. In summer, I like to play in its tall shade, and the villagers also like to enjoy the cool, chat and chat under the old pagoda tree. Every lunch time, men and children will squat under the tree with rice bowls. You taste my food, I eat your meal, and laugh and laugh in "social intercourse". It's too noisy! In the afternoon, women sat in the shade of the tree and threaded needles. Some people make soles, some people make uppers, some people sew clothes, some people mend pants, some people spin yarns ... working in their hands and talking in their mouths, parents have endless topics. There are still a group of children playing under the tree, some jumping around, some rolling iron rings, some kicking shuttlecock ... It's hot in midsummer, and I don't know how many times I leaned under the old locust tree before lunch, just like lying in my mother's arms. In my dream, I seemed to follow the branches of the old locust tree and walk to the dirt road leading to the jujube garden at the entrance of the village ... When I grew up, I left my hometown and left. I often seem to see an old pagoda tree in my dreams. White clouds swept over the treetops and a breeze blew. I clearly heard my mother's call. In the early 1970s, I was homesick and hurried home by train. I came to my door. Why didn't I see the old pagoda tree that I missed day and night? Hearing the villagers say that the old locust tree should be sawed off first, my tears burst into my eyes. In the years when pain and joy are intertwined, after year after year, the affectionate old locust tree in my memory is still so tall and lush! The urchin who used to stand in front of you and hide behind a tree has become a white-haired old man. Do you remember me, an old locust tree like a mother?