Thirty years ago, I was eight and he was thirty-five. One autumn night, he took me to a movie in a neighboring village. A long dragon appeared on the screen. People in the movie say it's called a train. The train is like a mass of yeast, which induces my strong desire to touch it with my own hands. On my way home, I was still talking about the train. I held his hand and asked him, "Dad, how far are we from the railway station? Can you take me to see the train? " He touched my head and made a plan with a smile: "I will take time to cut stones." When I earn enough money, I will sell my bike and take you there. "
Before dawn the next day, I was awakened by his action of getting up. I rubbed my sleepy eyes, saw the twinkling stars in the dark sky, and heard the howling wind in Shan Ye. My heart can't help shaking. This is the biggest wind since autumn, but he went up the mountain ahead of time in such bad weather. He left me some hard steamed buns as dry food at noon, and the solid voice drifted away.
For a promise, he changed his previous routine, starting one hour earlier and returning one hour later. It was a winter without snow, and he was glad that God was helping him so that he could go up the mountain to collect stones every day. On the twentieth day of the twelfth lunar month, when he came back, he was riding a brand-new bike. He excitedly carried me to the back seat of a bicycle and showed me around the village. He rode slowly, ill, directly and turned around. His laughter and mine overlap, flying around the mountains, echoing gracefully, banging my heart and hitting endless happiness.
It was dark and he couldn't see the road clearly. A stone tripped over his bike and we all fell to the ground. I got up to pull him and touched his hand. I'm not surprised. What kind of hand is that, like a rough and hard stone, it cuts my delicate hand and hurts faintly. For months, he went out early and came back late every day. I was still asleep when I went out, and I was already asleep when I came back. I haven't touched his hand for a long time. The iron chisel and hammer he held all day have worn away his softness, leaving only layers of cocoons, which proves his persistence in a promise. I felt tender love from his cocoon.
2 1 in the early morning, he woke me up from my sleep. He flushed with excitement and said, "Let's go and see the train. 200 miles round trip. We should go early. " I don't know what the concept of more than 200 miles is, but I feel very far away from his hurried expression. He made a wooden stool overnight, put it on the front bumper of the bicycle, covered it with cotton pad, and sat on it, comfortable and warm, just like sitting in his arms. There is a mountain road that is difficult to walk, and the uphill road is steep. He put his bike on his shoulder, crossed the hillside and hugged me again. I saw the fine sweat on his forehead, and the cold wind blew and shook carefully. I wiped it off with my little hand, and his smile bloomed in the lazy sun.
When I arrived at the railway station, it was already afternoon. He put my bike away and dragged me to the waiting room, which seemed to be more urgent than me. It seems that he wants to see the train instead of accompanying me. With the help of the staff, he bought two platform tickets, which not only showed me the train, but also sat in it for a while. After getting off the bus, I looked at him gratefully, and his face was filled with a happy smile.
Qiu Qianjia
The first time I went to the city, everything made me curious. I looked around and saw too many things. Out of the train station, I passed a school and looked around the campus. I saw a group of children around a boy in an open space. He sat on a board hung by a chain and swayed leisurely like the wind. Living in the mountains for a long time, I have never seen such a game except rocks. I said to him, "Dad, can you show it to me?" He got off the bus and took me to the campus. He talked to the children and begged them to let me play for a while. A boy said it was called swinging, and the chain hanging in the air was called swinging. I sat on it trembling. The children rocked the swing slightly first, then violently. I giggled, dizzy with happiness. I think this is the most wonderful children's game. When he held me down, I thought it was the most suitable game for children.
He really did it for me. Throughout the Spring Festival, he was busy, taking out a lot of broken hemp and weaving it on something called Meridian. It took several days to weave two thick and long hemp ropes and tie them to the big locust tree in the yard. That locust tree has a branch thicker than a bowl. He climbed up and tied the rope tightly to it. His hand,
Spring has come, and the leaves of Sophora japonica spread out, and a piece of green covered my swing. Sophora japonica blooms and is surrounded by fragrance. I sat on a small board and swayed gently, spreading happiness all over the yard. When he's not working, he lets me sit on the swing frame. He was on the side, pushing and pulling the hemp rope hard, swinging me higher and higher. Sometimes, I will stop and beg him, "Dad, sit down and I'll push you." He shook his head at once. "No, no, I'm too heavy. I'll crush the swing." Say, hold me on the swing again, push the rope into the air hard, and let it continue to create happiness for me.
Fish Sasakawa
The next winter, it was very cold, and the falling snow drifted for a few days. All over the mountains, it is a world wrapped in silver. Our hut was covered with snow and hit by the north wind, and it was as cold as an igloo. Just then, I caught a bad cold and lay in bed feebly. He wiped my hot forehead with a hot towel over and over again, muttering something, and the mountain was blocked by heavy snow. He couldn't take me to see a doctor outside the mountain, so he had to pray to the gods to eliminate disasters and exorcise demons for me.
My illness dragged on and on, and I was listless and haggard in his sorrow. He looked at me anxiously and asked me what I wanted to eat again and again. I look for something that can arouse my appetite in a blurred vision. For a long time, I said to him, "I want to drink grilled fish soup."
He frowned, then smiled and agreed, "I'll catch it in the river." He put on his coat, took a shovel and a fish shovel, and went out. I met him through the door and saw that the heavy snow didn't reach his knees.
I regretted it after he left. It's freezing, dripping into ice. How can he catch fish? Can you catch it? My eyes were thrown out of the window again and again, blurred by flying snowflakes again and again, and my heart was full of worries and worries.
In the evening, he came back with a fish spoon with three small fish in it. His hair and eyebrows are covered with frost, and his nose is red with cold, sticking to his purple face like a carrot. He told me about his fishing experience while cooking fish soup. He said it takes a lot of effort to break the ice with a shovel. The fish may be hungry under the ice, so they quickly got into the bamboo basket and ate sweet potatoes and corn. He speaks easily, interestingly and vividly, as if it is a pleasure to catch fish in the ice and snow.
After a while, the fishy smell drifted away. I sniffed and greedily sucked the rich fragrance, feeling that my insides were drunk. He pinched my nose playfully: "Be greedy, son!" He brought a bowl of hot fish soup and fed it to me spoonfuls. It's delicious, my discomfort is gone, and my cold has miraculously recovered.
The life infiltrated by his love is carefree and extremely happy. His bike, his swing rack, his fishing boat, all his things related to love are like dancing notes, composing a happy ballad. I thought it would start from childhood and keep swirling in my heart until the end of time. However, this ballad came to an abrupt end in the spring when I was twenty years old. Without warning, he suffered from an incurable disease. A few months later, his body became an empty shell. I picked him up before he died. He is so light, like grass, silent in my arms. He begged me, "Take me home."
His abdomen hurts badly and he can't stand the bumps. I pushed him gently with my bicycle, just as he pulled me with his car when I was a child. Along the way, I kept talking about my childhood. He listened quietly, smiled serenely and grabbed my skirt with endless sadness and nostalgia. When I got home, I let him rest for a while, then I carried him to the yard and sat him on my swing. Warm sunshine and mottled shadows fell on him, and childhood memories poured in. At that time, he was always reluctant to sit on the swing for fear of crushing it. Now, he can sit on it, but at the moment when he is as light as a cicada and his life is dying. I shook swing gently, and I couldn't help crying.
I took his second-hand fish steak to the river. He once caught fish there and cured me of my bad cold. I also hope that the fish soup I made for him can become the most magical medicine in the world and cure his illness, but he can't drink any more. ...
Now, I am thirty years old, out of the mountains, to the city, get married and have children. Like my father, I have done a lot of things related to fatherly love. I bought a stroller for my child and pushed him to play in the sun. On the balcony, a swing frame was installed for him.
Thank you for your adoption!