作者：金米
摘要：七月的海浪中回荡着我们对刘晓波先生的思念。
下午把手头最后一点事情做完，我提前下了班，一个人开车去了海边。
我一年总会这样几次，没有约人，也没有什么特别的理由。像是心里忽然生出一点潮汐，把人推向海边。
沙滩还是那片沙滩，海还是那片海。海鸥在头顶盘旋，风把头发吹得有些凌乱。远处的浪一层一层翻卷，因为隔得太远，几乎听不见声音，只看见它们无休无止地起，又无休无止地落。
海总是这样，不急，也不解释，而我每一次看见海，都会想起刘晓波。
别人看海，看的是日出、晚霞、远方和归航的船。我却总忍不住想，一个人的一生，最后化作了海里的一部分。于是后来，每一片海，都像认识他。
我常常觉得，一个人若最后连墓碑都没有，原该是一件很孤独的事。没有可以献花的地方，没有可以停下来轻轻叫一声名字的地方。可偏偏，大海又太辽阔了。辽阔得像一种命运，把所有寻找都化成了眺望。
海不会替谁保存记忆。
今天的浪，不会记得昨天的浪；今天吹过来的风，也不会知道它曾吹过谁最后停留的地方。
可人会。
所以每次来到海边，我都会安静一会儿。不是寻找什么，只是觉得，这样望着海的时候，人与历史之间，会忽然变得很近。
有些人的一生，最后浓缩成一本书、一座铜像、一间纪念馆。
而有些人，只剩下一片海。
海面那么宽，那么静，静得什么都装得下，也什么都不说。正因为它什么都不说，后来的人，才总想替它说一点什么。
有人说，人一生会死去三次：第一次是生命结束；第二次是葬礼结束；第三次，是最后一个记得他的人，也忘记了他的名字。我不知道这句话是不是对。但我知道，只要我还会来看海，我就还会想起他。
七月只是一个提醒。真正让我想起他的，从来不是日历，而是潮汐，是海风，是那些一遍又一遍涌上岸来的浪。
今天，我在沙滩坐了很久。
耳畔是海鸥零零落落的叫声，风一直吹，远方的海浪安静地翻滚。阳光慢慢偏西，沙子还留着白天的温度。我什么都没有做，只是看着海，像看着一本已经读过很多遍，却始终没有读完的书。
后来，我低下头，写下了这些字。
忽然觉得，纪念一个人，也许并不需要鲜花，不需要仪式，不需要很多人。只要还有人在七月的某一个下午，提前下班，一个人来到海边，在风里轻轻念起他的名字。
那么，他就没有真正离开。
编辑：李晶 校对：孔祥庆 翻译：沈美花
In Memory of Mr. Liu Xiaobo on the Ninth Anniversary of His Passing
Author: Jin Mi
Abstract: Within the waves of July echoes our deep remembrance of Mr. Liu Xiaobo.
Finishing up the last bits of work at hand this afternoon, I left the office early and drove to the seaside alone.
I do this a few times every year, without planning any company, nor for any particular reason. It feels as though a tiny tide suddenly rises within my heart, pushing me toward the shore.
The beach is still the same beach; the sea is still the same sea. Seagulls wheel overhead, and the wind whips my hair into a slight tangle. The distant waves roll in layer after layer; because they are so far away, they are almost silent, visible only as they rise endlessly and fall endlessly.
The sea is always like this—never in a hurry, never offering an explanation. Yet every time I look at the sea, I think of Liu Xiaobo.
When others look at the sea, they see the sunrise, the sunset glow, the distant horizon, and the returning ships. But I cannot help but think of how a person’s entire life could, in the end, dissolve into a part of the ocean. Thus, ever since, every stretch of the sea feels like an old acquaintance of his.
I often think that if a person ends up without even a tombstone, it must be a very lonely thing. There is no place to lay flowers, no place to stop and softly call out their name. Yet, by some twist, the ocean is simply too vast. It is vast like a destiny, turning all searching into a distant gaze.
The sea will not preserve memories for anyone.
Today’s waves will not remember yesterday’s waves; the wind blowing by today will not know whose final resting place it once swept over.
But humans will.
Therefore, every time I come to the seaside, I stay quiet for a while. It is not that I am searching for anything; I just feel that when gazing at the sea like this, the distance between human beings and history suddenly becomes very close.
The lives of some people are ultimately condensed into a book, a bronze statue, or a memorial hall.
Yet for some others, nothing is left but a stretch of sea.
The surface of the sea is so wide and so still—so still that it can hold everything, yet it says nothing. Precisely because it says nothing, those who come after always want to say something on its behalf.
It is said that a person dies three times in life: the first time is when life ends; the second time is when the funeral ends; the third time is when the last person who remembers them also forgets their name. I do not know if this saying is true. But I do know that as long as I still come to look at the sea, I will still think of him.
July is merely a reminder. What truly makes me think of him has never been the calendar, but the tides, the sea breeze, and the waves that wash ashore time and time again.
Today, I sat on the beach for a very long time.
In my ears was the scattered crying of seagulls; the wind blew continuously, and the distant waves rolled in silence. The sunlight gradually skewed toward the west, and the sand still held the warmth of the daytime. I did nothing at all, just watched the sea, as if reading a book that I have read many times, yet have never truly finished.
Later, I lowered my head and wrote down these words.
Suddenly, I felt that remembering someone perhaps does not require flowers, rituals, or a crowd of people. It only requires that on a certain afternoon in July, someone still leaves work early, comes to the seaside alone, and softly whispers his name in the wind.
If so, then he has never truly left.
Editor: Li Jing
Proofreader: Kong Xiangqing
Translator: Shen Meihua
