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    Each time I see a balloon, my mind flies back to a memory of when I was a six-year-old girl. It was a rainy Sunday and my father had recently died. I asked my mom if Dad had gone to heaven. "Yes, honey. Of course." she said.

    "Can we write him a letter?"

    She paused, the longest pause of my short life, and answered, "Yes."

    My heart jumped. "How? Does the mailman go there?" I asked.

    "No, but I have an idea." Mom drove to a party store and returned with a red balloon. I asked her what it was for.

    "Just wait, honey. You'll see." Mom told me to write my letter. Eagerly, I got my favorite pen, and poured out my six-year-old heart in the form of blue ink. I wrote about my day, what I learned at school, how Mom was doing, and even about what happened in a story I had read. For a few minutes it was as if Dad were still alive. I gave the letter to Mom. She read it over, and a smile crossed her face.

    She made a hole in the corner of the letter where she looped the balloon string. We went outside and she gave me the balloon. It was still raining.

    "Okay, on the count of three, let go. One, two, three."

    The balloon, carrying my letter, darted upward against the rain. We watched until it was swallowed by the mass of clouds.

    Later I realized, like the balloon, that Dad had never let his sickness get him down. He was strong. No matter what he suffered, he'd persevere, hang on, and finally transcend this cold world and his sick body. He rose into sky and became something beautiful. I watched until the balloon disappeared into the gray and white and I prayed that his strength was hereditary. I prayed to be a balloon.

如图所示，是常见的交通标志牌，其中与声现象有关的是（  ）

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                                                                                                                                   故乡的芦花  李笙清
        ①在滩涂上看芦花，是一件很惬意的事情。那种骑着牛背走在湖堤上看一望无垠的芦花的感觉，至今仍然令人回味无穷。柳笛声中，那大片大片茂密的芦苇迎风招展，雪一样的芦花便如旗帜般潮涌浪卷；宁静中，仿佛有涛声隐约，忍不住牧牛进入那片芦苇花海，任由苇絮芦花轻拂脸颊，然后折一根长长的芦苇顶在头上，自己就俨然成了芦苇王子。
        ②如今滩涂上的苇林稀了，那种飘雪的壮观景象我是难以找到了，但是一蓬一蓬的芦苇依然顽强地生长在那些肥沃的滩涂上、河床边，它们惊人的生命力，来自于那深深下扎的芦根；当芦花谢了，芦苇枯萎，那些吮吸着水乡乳汁的芦根，却已在孕育着新的生命。
        ③我常常将芦花看作是水乡的女人，她们是我的祖母和母亲，还有更多系着围裙下河下湖的女人。水乡的湖从来不曾干涸。每到涨潮时节，纵横交错的河床满了，水会漫过岸边的芦苇。一路流淌，直到扎进湖里。而到了枯水季节，湖水会经过一孔孔涵闸，给这些河道注入生命之水，也滋润着河道两边丛生的芦苇。
        ④芦苇拔节的季节，正是麦地出苗的时候，这时候的水乡是清闲的，河边往往是最热闹的地方。男人们会光着膀子修理渔具，将那些终年漂在水上的船抬到岸上，晒干后，顶着日头，一遍遍地给船体上桐油。织网是女人的活计，树阴下，那些穿花似的巧手忽上忽下，令人眼花缭乱。一级一级的石板台阶，一个一个的水埠头，女人的嬉闹声里，常常掺杂着汉子粗粗的嗓门。泥土一样朴实。间或有水鸟扑棱棱地从岸边的芦苇丛中飞出，引起一串更响亮的笑声。当此起彼伏的棒槌声渐渐停息下来，女人们会就着河水洗发，会将清清的水面当作妆镜，欣赏一番自己的容颜，一朵红云会腾上脸来。
        ⑤当湖风温暖地沿着苇荡穿行的日子，芦花开始出穗，男人们开始下湖忙活。A这时候的女人也忙碌起来，她们像莲花一样开放在近湖和堰塘里，一个个小小的木桶，一根根细长的竹篙，让女人们融入到一片诗意之中。草帽下，那些淌着汗水的脸，总是笑意嫣然，挥手间，沾满菱角叶。在我的水乡，采菱一般是女人的专利，说笑之间，她们的纤纤十指飞快地摘着水面上的菱角，熟练得就像在做纳鞋底一样的针线活，不一会儿，木桶就满了，女人们将木桶划到岸边，麻利地用筐篓装好，然后舀干木桶里的水，又轻盈地划进菱花丛中。一趟趟下来，岸边的菱角成了小山，女人的衣服开始湿透，会显出好看的曲线。偶尔有汉子心疼婆娘，也划着木桶采菱，他们笨拙的姿势往往引来女人的笑声，有时木桶翻了，男人和菱角一起滑落到水里，这时候，女人的笑声会更加恣意。
        ⑥芦苇长得更高的时候，芦花开始在风中怒放，秋风中，那银白如絮的芦花飘逸柔情。男人们开始频繁地出湖，B而女人们的扁舟会像蜜蜂一样轻灵地穿行在荷叶林中。那些莲花凋谢的荷杆上，已挂满熟透的莲蓬。每当扁舟划过，女人唇边的渔歌，夹杂着莲蓬与荷梗断裂的脆响，这时候的女人，就像迎风飘拂的芦花一样美丽动人。
        ⑦和家乡众多的女人一样，母亲的那双勤劳的手，除了摘菱采莲和忙她那永远也做不完的针线活外，还会用芦苇编织很多东西。夕阳下，母亲坐在院子里，用锋利的篾刀将芦苇去皮，劈成蔑条，编织成苇帘、苇席、苇篮和苇篓等用品，连圈养鸭子的篱笆和菜地的栅栏都是用一根根的芦苇夹成。有时候坐在小凳上，看着母亲那双灵巧的手上下翻飞，每每出神。
        ⑧等到我上中学时，一个外地商人在当地办起苇编厂，那些取之不尽的芦苇被水乡的女人编成果篮、笔筒等精美的工艺品，竟成了一项创收的渠道。再后来，镇上办起了造纸厂。芦苇被大量收购，水乡的芦苇面积开始减少，那种芦花如海的景象不多见了。如今，祖母早已过世。母亲也已不再是当年的采莲女，但家乡的芦花仍然一年又一年地花开花谢，牵动着我的一抹乡愁，一抹遥远的记忆。让我再一次徜徉在芦苇花海，走进那种难得的宁静淡泊之中。