Li Nainai, a kind neighbor, couldn't bear the pain after all. When everyone was around her in the morning, she closed her eyes and fell asleep and never woke up. The persistent crying of the children made everyone present burst into tears. Everyone was immersed in sadness, except Lao Li, who stared at his wife who had been with him for most of his life and sighed. No one knows whether there is sadness in his drooping eyes. After he looked up, he began to contact the funeral home, the person who handled the funeral, and prepared everything. He didn't rush the children, but he was busy there in an orderly way, as if he had a plan in mind.
After the funeral, I thought that Lao Li was old, and his children asked him to move in with his grandchildren alone. He didn't refute, but he didn't act. He lived in the old house where he lived with his wife for decades, and laughed every day. After a long time, the children gave up.
Life is as leisurely as before. Go out to play Tai Chi with my old friends every morning. I also buy a handful of green vegetables and a few dollars of lean meat to go home, listen to Beijing opera and read newspapers. When I am hungry, I cook some food by myself. When I am free, I will sit under the big banyan tree at the entrance of the village. Every day, I look so carefree. It doesn't seem to matter if there is one person missing in my life. Except for the common figures walking together in the street, life is as calm as if it never happened.
Lao Li's habit of writing brush characters on the windowsill at night lasted for more than twenty years. Sometimes it's a word, sometimes it's a Buddhist scripture. He turned the waves he experienced hand in hand with his wife into truth, carved it on paper and didn't save it. He let the wind blow in through the open window, and the paper rose and fell. Sasha Vujacic's voice, accompanied by his wife's cooking voice, strung into the melody of the years. Later, every weekend, my granddaughter came to see my grandfather, and when she looked at his works, she found that the paper on the windowsill even had a thin layer of dust. She wiped it clean and tried to fold it. When she shook her hand, some papers came out gently. She saw the paper next to her grandparents' photos and wrote a poem by Bai Juyi: "I forget when I am old, but I don't forget my homesickness."