The Old Days and New Beginnings in the Fragrance of Zongye

The Old Days and New Beginnings in the Fragrance of Zongye

The scent of zongye from last Dragon Boat Festival still lingers deep in my memory. At that time, the smoke of the college entrance examination had just dissipated. Clutching my admission ticket that still carried the faint smell of ink, I met up with my high school classmates in an old alley filled with the aroma of wormwood to embark on a unique "nostalgic journey."

In the morning market, the green zongye rustled in bamboo baskets, while glutinous rice grains were as plump as pearls. Red beans and salted egg yolks shimmered enticingly in the sunlight. We gathered around an old wooden table, watching an aunt skillfully roll the zongye into a funnel shape and teach us step-by-step how to fill it with glutinous rice, press it tightly, seal it, and wrap it with thread. At first, our zongzi were crooked—some had torn leaves, while others were loosely tied—eliciting continuous laughter among us. Someone secretly stuffed an extra honey-date into their zongzi, declaring it would "sweeten the future"; another folded the leaves into a quirky shape, calling it a "unique design to commemorate high school." Sunlight poured through the window, casting golden spots on everyone's faces. The small mountain of zongzi on the table held not just ingredients but also fragments of our three years of high school life—the loud morning reading voices, shared snacks during breaks, and encouraging glances during exam preparations—all blending with the aroma of glutinous rice, gradually filling the air.

As the zongzi bubbled in the pot, we stood under the plane tree at the entrance of the old alley, holding our admission tickets, and watched the sunlight filter through the leaves to weave mottled patterns on the ground. Someone pointed to the distant teaching building and said, "Remember the Dragon Boat Festival in our senior year? We secretly shared zongzi in the classroom, and when the homeroom teacher found out, she not only didn't scold us but helped us peel the leaves." Before the words faded, there was a hint of choking in our laughter. Those days that once seemed endless, filled with test papers and exercises, had now become the most precious treasures in our hearts. When the zongzi were cooked, the moment we peeled off the leaves, steam carried a fresh fragrance. Biting into one, the soft glutinous rice melted on the tongue, with a subtle sweetness mixed with the scent of plants, like a gift from time.

That evening, we strolled along the campus path we had walked countless times, carrying the zongzi we had wrapped. The setting sun stretched our shadows long; the glass curtain wall of the teaching building reflected the orange-red sunset, and on the playground track, junior schoolmates and schoolmates were still sweating. We placed the zongzi under the wishing tree and made wishes for the future—some wanted to travel far to see a bigger world, while others hoped to meet like-minded friends on new campuses. The wind gently blew, intertwining the fragrance of zongye with the atmosphere of youth, as if saying: Farewell is not the end, but a new beginning.

Now, it is Dragon Boat Festival again, and the fragrance of zongye fills the air once more. Those friends who wrapped zongzi together have long gone their separate ways, but whenever I smell that familiar scent, I recall that afternoon last year filled with laughter and touching moments. It turns out that youth is never a lonely journey. The roads we walked together, the things we did together, and the flavors we shared will all become indelible marks in our lives. And we will carry these warm memories, bravely embracing every hopeful tomorrow on our new journeys.