作者：牛腾宇妈妈

前言 / 创作手记

这些年，我一次次来到四会，只为离儿子近一点，再近一点。每次去探视前，我都会住在龙江边的龙凤大酒店。推开十楼的窗户，下面就是那条静静流淌的龙江。白天，它承载着我的脚步；夜晚，它映照着我全部的思念与眼泪。儿子被关在离酒店只有几公里的四会监狱里。隔着高墙，我见不到他，只能借着这条江，寄托一个母亲最卑微又最深沉的爱。我沿着江边走，把带给他的礼物，以及那些说不出口的话，一遍遍托付给江水；我站在阳台上，看着江面被酒店灯光碎成闪烁的光链，仿佛看见了我们被拆散的日子，也看见了未来一家团圆的微光。《龙江边的守望》和《龙江夜·母亲的守》就是我在那些不眠之夜里写下的心声。文字很朴素，却是我最真实的痛与守候。我没有华丽的辞藻，只有作为一个母亲日复一日的思念、等待和坚持。江水知道我所有的眼泪，它也知道我从未放弃的信念——总有一天，我要接儿子回家，我们母子一起站在龙江边，看同样的灯光倒映在水里，那时候，再也没有高墙，再也没有分离。写这些文字的时候，我常常泪流满面。写完后，我把它们留在酒店的窗前、留在江风里，也留在心里。我希望有一天，腾宇能读到它们，知道妈妈从来不曾离开过他，哪怕黑夜再长，哪怕路途再远，妈妈都在这里守着、等着。感谢龙江，它成了我与儿子之间最温柔也最坚韧的桥梁。愿每一个读到这些文字的人，都能感受到一个母亲最深沉的爱。

牛腾宇妈妈 2026年5月于四会·龙凤大酒店

龙江边的守望

我住在四会的龙凤大酒店， 窗外就是那条静静的龙江。 夜里灯光落进水里， 碎成一条颤抖的光链， 像我这些年碎掉的心。儿子，你被关在四会监狱， 离我只有几公里。 每天早上我推开窗， 看着江水向你那边流， 我就在心里一遍遍叫你的名字——腾宇。酒店的房间很安静， 安静得能听见我自己的心跳。 偶尔沿着龙江走， 走过那座桥， 走到能望见监狱高墙的地方。风吹过江面，带着湿凉的水汽， 我把带来的衣服、吃的、想对你说的话， 都交给它， 希望它能替我送进去一点点。晚上我睡不着， 就站在阳台上看着江里的倒影。 那些酒店的灯光、高楼的影子， 在水里晃啊晃， 像我们被拆散的日子。我常常想， 如果你能站在我身边， 我们母子俩一起看这条江， 该有多好。腾宇啊，妈妈在这里等着你。 龙江每天都流， 它知道我所有的眼泪， 也知道我所有的坚持。我住在这家酒店， 把日子过成一条长长的河， 只为有一天， 能接你回家。江水啊， 请你替我抱抱我的孩子， 告诉他， 妈妈的爱从来没离开过， 哪怕高墙再厚， 哪怕黑夜再长。江水知我心：绥江边的母亲守望我住在四会的龙凤大酒店，已经好几个日夜。推开十层的房间窗户，夜风带着湿润的水汽扑面而来，下面就是那条静静流淌的龙江。灯光从酒店、从两岸的楼群倾泻而下，在江面上碎成一片闪烁的金银碎屑，像无数细小的心愿在水里颤抖，又被缓缓流动的江水带向远方。儿子，你就在离我不远的四会监狱里。我每天站在这里，望着江水向你所在的方向流去，心里便生出一种近在咫尺却又遥不可及的痛。白天，我沿着龙江的岸边走，风吹起我的头发，我把为你准备的礼物，还有那些压在心底的话，一遍遍默念给江水听。希望它能穿过高墙，替我抱一抱你，替我告诉你，妈妈就在这里。夜晚的龙江最温柔，也最残忍。酒店的霓虹、高楼的灯光、桥上的车灯，全都倒映在水里，被波纹轻轻揉碎、拉长、晃动。那些光影像我们被拆散的日子，时而清晰，时而模糊。我常常久久地凝视着它们，仿佛看见了你小时候的笑脸，看见了我们曾经在一起的平凡时光。江水不说话，它只是默默地流，把所有的思念、所有的眼泪、所有的等待，都卷进它的怀里，带向未知的下游。这里的一切都沾染着水汽，连梦里都是潮湿的。深夜我睡不着，便披衣站在阳台上，任由龙江的夜风拂过脸庞。远处监狱的方向偶尔亮起一点冷光，我的心就跟着揪紧。儿子啊，妈妈知道你受苦了，可妈妈只能用这种方式陪着你——守在这条江边，守在这家酒店的窗前，把自己活成一条不肯断流的河。龙江，你见证了我所有的眼泪，也请你见证我的坚持。总有一天，我会接你回家，我们母子一起站在这江边，看同样的灯光倒影在水里，那时候，它们一定不再是破碎的，而是完整的、温暖的，像从未被分开过一样。江水缓缓，夜色深深。我在这里，等你。

编辑：黄吉洲   校对：毛一炜 翻译：沈美花

Diary of a Trip to Guangdong in May 2026: Night Thoughts by the Longjiang River

Author: Niu Tengyu’s Mother

Preface / Creative Notes

Over these years, I have come to Sihui time and time again, solely to be closer to my son—just a little bit closer. Before every visitation, I stay at the Longfeng Grand Hotel by the Longjiang River. Pushing open the window on the tenth floor, the quietly flowing Longjiang River lies just below. By day, it carries my footsteps; by night, it reflects the entirety of my longing and my tears.

My son is imprisoned in Sihui Prison, only a few kilometers away from the hotel. Separated by high walls, I cannot see him. I can only use this river to carry a mother’s most humble yet profound love. I walk along the riverbank, repeatedly entrusting the river with the gifts I brought for him and the words I cannot bring myself to speak aloud. Standing on the balcony, watching the river surface shattered into a shimmering chain of light by the hotel lamps, I seem to see our fractured days, but also the faint glimmer of our future family reunion.

“The Vigil by the Longjiang River” and “Longjiang Night: A Mother’s Vigil” are the inner voices I wrote down during those sleepless nights. The words are very simple, but they represent my most genuine pain and watchfulness. I have no gorgeous rhetoric, only a mother’s day-after-day longing, waiting, and perseverance. The river knows all my tears, and it also knows my never-failing conviction—that one day, I will bring my son home. Together, as mother and son, we will stand by the Longjiang River and watch the same lights reflected in the water. At that time, there will be no more high walls, and no more separation.

When writing these words, tears often streamed down my face. After finishing them, I left them by the hotel window, in the river breeze, and in my heart. I hope that one day, Tengyu can read them and know that his mother has never left him. No matter how long the night, no matter how far the journey, his mother is always here, guarding and waiting.

Thank you, Longjiang River, for becoming the gentlest yet most resilient bridge between my son and me.

May everyone who reads these words feel a mother’s deepest love.

Niu Tengyu’s Mother, May 2026, at Longfeng Grand Hotel, Sihui.

The Vigil by the Longjiang River

I am staying at the Longfeng Grand Hotel in Sihui,

Outside the window is that quietly flowing Longjiang River.

At night, the lights fall into the water,

Shattering into a trembling chain of light,

Just like my broken heart over these years.

Son, you are imprisoned in Sihui Prison,

Only a few kilometers away from me.

Every morning I push open the window,

Watching the river flow toward your direction,

And in my heart, I call your name over and over again—Tengyu.

The hotel room is very quiet,

So quiet that I can hear my own heartbeat.

Occasionally, I walk along the Longjiang River,

Crossing that bridge,

To the place where I can catch a glimpse of the prison’s high walls.

The wind blows across the river surface, carrying a damp, cool mist,

The clothes, food, and words I want to say to you—

I entrust them all to the wind,

Hoping it can deliver a tiny fraction of them inside to you.

At night, unable to sleep,

I stand on the balcony looking at the reflections in the river.

The lights from the hotel, the shadows of the high-rises,

Swaying and shifting in the water,

Look just like our fractured days.

I often think,

If only you could stand by my side,

And the two of us, mother and son, could look at this river together,

How wonderful that would be.

Tengyu, your mother is here waiting for you.

The Longjiang River flows every day,

It knows all my tears,

And it knows all my perseverance.

I live in this hotel,

Turning my days into a long, flowing river,

Only for the day

When I can bring you home.

O river water,

Please embrace my child for me,

Tell him,

A mother’s love has never left,

No matter how thick the high walls,

No matter how long the dark night.

The River Knows My Heart: A Mother’s Vigil by the Suijiang River

I have been staying at the Longfeng Grand Hotel in Sihui for several days and nights now. Pushing open the window of my room on the tenth floor, the night breeze hits my face, carrying damp mist. Below is the quietly flowing Longjiang River. Lights pour down from the hotel and from the clusters of buildings on both banks, shattering on the river surface into glittering fragments of gold and silver. They look like countless tiny wishes trembling in the water, slowly carried away into the distance by the moving current.

Son, you are right there in Sihui Prison, not far from me. I stand here every day, watching the river flow in the direction where you are, and my heart aches with a pain that feels so close yet so unimaginably far away. During the day, I walk along the banks of the Longjiang River. The wind lifts my hair, and I repeatedly murmur to the river water the gifts I prepared for you and the words pressed deep in my heart. I hope it can pass through the high walls, embrace you on my behalf, and tell you that your mother is right here.

The Longjiang River at night is both the gentlest and the most cruel. The neon lights of the hotel, the lights of the high-rises, and the headlights of cars on the bridge are all reflected in the water, gently crumpled, elongated, and shaken by the ripples. Those images of light look like our fractured days—sometimes clear, sometimes blurred. I often stare at them for a very long time, as if seeing your childhood smile, and seeing the ordinary times we once spent together. The river does not speak; it just flows silently, rolling all the longing, all the tears, and all the waiting into its embrace, carrying them toward the unknown downstream.

Everything here is tainted with moisture; even my dreams are damp. Deep in the night, unable to sleep, I put on a coat and stand on the balcony, letting the night breeze of the Longjiang River brush past my face. In the distance, a cold light occasionally flares up from the direction of the prison, and my heart tightens along with it. Son, your mother knows you are suffering, but this is the only way I can accompany you—by keeping vigil beside this river, standing before the window of this hotel, turning myself into a river that refuses to stop flowing.

Longjiang River, you have witnessed all my tears; please also witness my perseverance. One day, I will bring you home. Mother and son, we will stand together by this river, watching the same lights reflected in the water. At that time, they will surely no longer be shattered, but complete and warm, as if we had never been torn apart.

The river water flows slowly; the night grows deep. I am here, waiting for you.

Editor: Huang Jizhou | Proofreader: Mao Yiwei | Translator: Shen Meihua