The rhythmic clatter of train tracks faded as I stepped onto the familiar platform, my heart swelling with the crisp scent of hometown air. May Day had arrived, painting the streets with golden sunlight and the chatter of reunited families. After months in the city, my childhood bedroom welcomed me—its faded starry wallpaper and the quilt smelling faintly of lavender.
Early next morning, we joined our community’s tree-planting event. Dozens of neighbors gathered, their laughter blending with the rustle of saplings. Dad handed me a shovel, its handle worn smooth by generations of hands. We chose a sunlit patch of earth, its soil dark and rich. My younger cousin, Xiaoling, giggled as she struggled to lift a watering can twice her size. Together, we carved into the ground, the shovel’s blade biting through roots and stones. Sweat trickled down my neck, but the breeze carried the tang of fresh earth—a scent of promise.
“Tilt the sapling slightly,”a retired biology teacher suggested, adjusting the fragile trunk with surgeon-like care. We layered compost around it, my elder sister carefully sprinkling water like a mother treat her children. Around us, others worked in rhythm: teens hauling buckets, elders sharing stories of trees they’d planted decades ago.
By noon, our once-barren plot bristled with young maples, their leaves trembling in the wind as if whispering gratitude. We ate lunch on the grass, passing homemade dumplings and thermoses of tea.
Although work is tiring, we can still find joy in it. This short May Day holiday and ordinary work experience have taught me a profound lesson.