The wheat harvest season in memory is busy and hard, but it is in full swing.
Whenever the wheat field is golden, my father grinds the sickle that has been idle for half a season and turns it over and over until it shines like a curved moon. At the harvest time, the sun is hot and the cooked wheat is idle with golden light. For cultivators, this is the busiest and most important season of the year.
Because my little sister just came out and needs her mother to take care of her at home. Father did all the work. As soon as the window was gray, my father got up and knocked over the field. A man dragged a heavy stone and walked back and forth with difficulty. The sound of "Ji Ji" has been floating in my childhood. After breakfast, my father took a shiny sickle and pulled up the old flatbed car. As for me, I always climbed into my father's car and came to the wheat field, sitting in the shade of the field head, looking at the endless wheat field and looking at my father's lonely and busy figure.
My father bent down and buried his upper body in the wheat field higher than mine, as if to express his love and piety for the land with this worship posture. He gathered a bunch of wheat ears in his left hand, raised his sickle in his right hand, and the straw was cut from the middle and placed neatly behind him. In this way, cut down step by step and move forward. Father's clothes were soaked to the skin, so he went to the head of the field sweating profusely and wolfed down his food. When my mother turned around, I saw tears in her eyes. Then I followed my mother home. In the wheat field, my father is still drinking and sweating, harvesting hope.
When the moon rises high, it's time for my father to call it a day and go home. In the moonlight, my father curled up on a bench, and his tired waist became a curved moon.
In the next few days, my father always repeated this monotonous action until the wheat was cut. Then, hug to hug to carry on the flatbed car, one by one to go home, pulling the stone mill to roll round and round. ...
Later, when I grew up, I could help my father cut wheat. But after several trips, my back ached and my legs ached. The first marriage made me dazzled and almost out of breath. I thought at that time: as long as you don't cut wheat, it is the happiest thing in life. At dinner, my father said to me, this time you know' who knows every grain is hard'? From an early age, you should know how to cherish food and your own achievements. If you study hard and get into college, you won't have to suffer this crime. As he spoke, his father's eyes were as bright as the moon, shining with hope.
Nowadays, the modern combine harvester has entered the farmers' wheat field, and after several turns, the wheat will flow out of the barn. Father's sickle was gloriously put down and hung high on the wall.
However, my father will often take it down and touch it gently with his hand, as if touching that hard time and touching that affectionate land. ...