When I was in elementary school, the roads were wide and cars were scarce. I remember one evening, my parents and I were pushing a bicycle, walking on the hilltop outside Jiading Elementary School on Ruichang Road.
Now, if you want to be honest, you will feel compelled to live truly with these weathered memories, meticulously calculating every shortcoming and possibility. But if you are more eager to create a good story, then you can disguise these memories as fiction, swearing to them with belief, being emotionally charged.
For example, was it really early summer? Or do I think so just because summer was approaching when I recounted those years? I seem to remember a sunset, with pink and purple reflecting the rows of windows. Perhaps we were just strolling leisurely, without a bicycle. My aunt's house wasn't far; we likely had just finished dinner at my grandparents' and were heading there. Maybe just for a visit, or perhaps I stayed the night, close to school the next day.
Determining the exact year proves to be a challenge. I want to say third grade, but Ms. Liu, who is in this memory, only taught me after fourth grade. It could be fourth grade, but my cousin had entered first grade at our school when I was