On the solstice of winter, my father celebrated his forty-fifth birthday. In the years when I passed the age of no doubt and gradually learned my fate, my father liked silence and loss.
In the old house in the rural area of southern Shaanxi, the corner is 90 degrees, and my father set up a fireplace. The heat generated by semi-dry firewood is half smoke and half fire. Every winter is full of smog, and the walls on both sides are painted in black and bright colors. Father sat down by the fireplace and lit a cheap cigarette.
The copper pot on the fireplace has lost its original appearance, and the water in the pot is ringing before it boils. Someone once wrote this sound like a ballad in an article, but unfortunately I have never found this feeling. Watching my father smoke, the half-bright and half-dark orange fireworks are like lonely eyes in this dark corner.
The fire in the fireplace began to jump, and the light and shadow in the hut were burning. Father said, I want to drink a pot of old wine.
When my father finished his first cigarette, the water in the copper pot was boiling with great excitement, but the wine in the pot was not warm. Father put his hand in the wine sleeve and leaned forward, quiet and kind. An old yellow cat next to me is motionless, squinting, enjoying the warmth from the fire pond, simple and happy!
Two white porcelain cups, full of solid colors, small and exquisite. Father raised the hip flask, filled two cups, and the hops became one. Father's nose is full of alcohol. Father picked up the glass with his other hand, as if he couldn't wait and seemed reluctant to part with it. After tasting the first cup, the smell of wine immediately came alive in my father's body. I have always been in awe of wine, this strong fairy wine. Because what I drink is spicy, not the mellow taste of my father. When my father finished the third cup, I had not finished my first cup.
I saw my father's face flushed, and the fading heroic spirit, stubble, lofty sentiments hidden in his brow and even his lofty aspirations vanished in the years. My father is old and silent. It's always because it was a long time ago, but now it seems that it's just self-deception in the text. This glass of wine even showed me what my father looked like years later.
I still have the sour taste of wine between my Adam's apple. My father said that men should learn to drink.
My father tasted his wine, which is beyond description. This wine is the product of this unique subtropical climate in southern Shaanxi, and it is unique. Father's brewing technology is also famous in Fiona Fang Baili. Many years later, if my father can still remember it, he may be proud.
Many years ago, my father was full of heroism. A glass of wine is a chapter that my father still talks about. In my father's life, I can't tell you what unspeakable stories he has. This is the struggle history of their generation. If my father's life can be written, it will be a masterpiece. In the world beyond the mountain, my father transformed the scenery there with wisdom and built the mountains and rivers there with his hands. Once great achievements are now insignificant and indifferent in the corner of the city. Many touching traces are therefore hidden in his father's memory.
This glass of wine easily reminds my father of the past. Now, my father can't make any expression except a sigh from the heart. Many years ago, my father would take out the ancient erhu and play many country tunes of unknown origin. But now, those palpitations that my father didn't sing can only live in occasional memories. I didn't feel kind when I saw my father's cocoon-covered hands spread out in front of the fireplace, but I didn't say anything bitter.
My father lit the second cigarette, but he didn't smoke it. I watched the cigarette burn out alone in the translucent air, and the ash fell off one by one. Father stood motionless, like a wise man, but didn't say anything profound.
After the cigarette was finished, my father had almost finished tasting the white wine brewed in the pot. Two white wine glasses, like twin brothers. Father's face flushed. I filled two glasses, and the pot was just empty. Father said that if you drink any more, you will get drunk. I shook the hip flask and said, just one last glass. Father smiled faintly.
Father's faint smile, let me still remember, simple or complex, for a long time did not distinguish. He picked up his glass and looked up, clean and tidy. Many years ago, my father came back to life in his old jar of wine.
Father blushed and asked me if it was snowing. I said, it's floating sporadically. I guess I'll stay at night. Father said it was time for heavy snow.
Snow-covered, covering the glory of the world, in the next morning.