That Mid-Autumn Festival, my mother shed tears.

 　　When I was around ten years old, for three or four years, my father worked in Anhui, and my mother and I lived in Beijing. My mother's name contained the character "Gui" (桂), and her birthday was a little after the Mid-Autumn Festival.

　　One Mid-Autumn Festival, an uncle came to Beijing from Hefei by train, carrying a lot of things, saying they were all gifts from my father for the festival. As soon as the uncle left, my mother and I started unpacking the packages one by one: roast chicken, pastries, and mooncakes of different flavors... Finally, he took out a tall cardboard box, the kind used for storing foreign liquor.

　　I said, "Dad brought us liquor?" I reached out and picked it up, but it was surprisingly light.

　　"Why don't we guess what's in the box?"

　　My mother and I started shaking it, and we could only hear a rustling, soft sound inside, like a handful of sand.

　　We couldn't guess, so we opened it. Wow, it was full of osmanthus blossoms!

　　It turned out that my father had climbed the osmanthus tree in the provincial government compound and cut a branch for my mother.

　　I can still remember what that osmanthus branch looked like. There was no floral foam; my father, I don't know where he got it, took a bag of absorbent cotton, soaked it thoroughly in water, wrapped it layer by layer, then wrapped it with plastic wrap, and finally put it in a large plastic bag, standing it steadily in the box.

　　In the middle of the branch, there was a small card with my familiar tiny handwriting: "

　　Tonight, the moon shines over Fuzhou, but only my wife in her chamber sees it.

　　I pity my young children, who do not yet understand longing for Chang'an. The

　　fragrant mist dampens her cloud-like hair, the clear moonlight chills her

　　jade-like arms. When will we lean against the empty window, our tears dried by the shared moonlight?"

　　It was Du Fu's "Moonlit Night."

　　That day, my mother held the card, said nothing, closed her eyes, a tear on the tip of her long eyelashes, fluttering for a long time, then "plop" fell onto the card.

　　That scene, those details, no matter how much time has passed, remain in my heart. And my parents' flowers and poem that day instilled in me a trust in humanity and love from a young age.

　　And then I realized, every word and every sentence of the ancients speaks of your very moment, a thousand years later. "This life, this night, is fleeting; where will we see the bright moon next year?" There will always be a moon passed down through generations, and there will always be lovers, endlessly renewing these poetic sentiments with the same heart.

　　The beauty of festivals lies in the connection between people; at this moment, it is perfectly justifiable to set aside all busyness and confidently send your greetings and thoughts.