《小女孩眼裡的小姨》

她總是這樣

像支被彩虹咬過的鉛筆，

從門口一閃，

把整個房間點亮成一幅不守規矩的畫。

頭髮被魔力驅使

如兩朵隨時會飛走的紫色雲團，

在空氣里輕輕晃着，

像在聽只有她能聽見的音樂。

眼睛大得發亮，

似兩顆會發光的玻璃珠。

小女孩覺得，

那裡面藏着一個秘密世界——

有跳舞的小貓，會說話的星星，

還有永遠不會生氣的大人。

衣服總是穿錯季節：

冬天披着春天的紫，

夏天掛着秋天的橙。

像把四季都借來穿在身上，

只為逗小女孩笑。

手指塗着五種顏色，

像盒隨時打開的蠟筆。

她不畫紙，

畫空氣，畫風，

畫小女孩的額頭，

畫一個看不見的祝福。

走路時，

鞋子會發出小小的叮噹聲。

不是金屬的，

是那種“今天會很好”的聲音——

只有孩子聽得見。

小女孩覺得，

小姨不像大人。

大人不會這麼五彩繽紛，

不會這樣不講規則地微笑，

也不會把世界當成一張白紙。

她更像——

從童話里悄悄跑出來的人，

忘了關門，

順手把一點魔法

帶進了現實。

小女孩知道，

等她長大，

世界會灰一點、硬一點、窄一點。

她也知道，

只要想起那雙綠色玻璃珠一樣的眼睛，

想起那雙塗着彩色指甲的手，

想起那件紫和橙混在一起的怪衣服——

她就能重新相信：

世界是可以被重新塗色的。

小姨教她的不是畫畫，

而是——

在長大的路上，

偷偷留住一點不長大的能力。

The Aunt Through a Little Girl’s Eyes

She is always like this—

like a pencil nibbled by a rainbow,
darting in through the doorway,
and in one bright stroke
turning the whole room
into a painting that refuses to behave.

Her hair seems moved by some quiet spell,
two violet clouds on the verge of flight,
swaying in the air
as if listening
to music meant for her alone.

Her eyes are wide and luminous—
two glass marbles holding their own light.
The little girl is certain
there is a secret world inside them:
cats that dance, stars that speak,
and grown-ups who never raise their voices.

She dresses in the wrong season on purpose—
wearing spring’s lilac in winter,
draping autumn’s amber across summer.
As though she has borrowed all four seasons
and put them on at once
just to coax a smile.

Her fingers are painted five different colors,
like a box of crayons forever open.
She does not draw on paper.
She draws on air, on wind,
on the little girl’s forehead—
sketching invisible blessings.

When she walks,
her shoes make a soft chiming sound.
Not metal—
but the sound of today will be kind.
Only children can hear it.

The little girl knows
her aunt is not quite like other adults.
Adults are rarely so vivid,
so gloriously out of bounds.
They do not smile without permission.
They do not treat the world
as a blank page waiting for color.

She is more like someone
who slipped quietly out of a fairy tale,
forgot to shut the door,
and carried a trace of magic
into the ordinary air.

The little girl also knows
that when she grows up,
the world will turn a little grayer,
a little harder,
a little narrower.

But she knows something else, too:

If she remembers those green-glass eyes,
those hands tipped with color,
that improbable dress
where purple and orange make peace—

she will remember
that the world can be recolored.

What her aunt taught her
was not how to draw.

It was this—

how, along the long road of growing up,
to keep hidden within herself
the quiet power
of not entirely growing old.