When I was ten years old, I won the first prize in an essay contest. My mother was still young at that time, and she was anxious to tell me about herself, saying that her composition was better when she was a child, and the teachers didn't believe that such a good article would be written by her. "The teacher went home and asked the adults at home if they helped. I may not be ten years old then. " I was disappointed and smiled deliberately: "Maybe? What do you mean maybe not? " She explained. I pretended not to pay attention to what she said and played table tennis against the wall, which was enough to make her angry. But I admit that she is very clever. She is the most beautiful woman in the world. She is making herself a skirt with blue and white flowers.
Twenty years old, disabled in both legs. I think I should do something besides drawing eggs for others. I changed my mind several times and finally wanted to learn to write. Mother was not young at that time, and for my legs, my head began to have white hair. The hospital has made it clear that my condition cannot be cured at present. My mother's whole mind is still on treating me, asking doctors for remedies everywhere and spending a lot of money. She can always find some strange medicine for me to eat, drink or wash, compress, smoke and moxibustion. "Don't waste time! It's useless at all! " I said, I just want to write a novel, which seems to save the disabled. "Try again. How do you know it will be useless if you don't try? " She said that every time, she held the hope devoutly. However, I was disappointed in my leg many times, just as I hoped. For the last time, my crotch was burnt by smoke. The doctor in the hospital said it was a real sling for paralyzed patients. This is almost fatal. I'm not too scared. I wish I was dead, but I'm glad I am. My mother was scared for months and stayed with me day and night. As soon as she changed her dressing, she said, "How can it be hot? I am still paying attention! " Fortunately, the wound is getting better, otherwise she would go crazy.
Later she found out that I was writing a novel. She said to me, "Then write well." I can hear that she has finally given up hope of curing my leg. "I liked literature best when I was young," she said. "When I was your age, I wanted to write," she said. "Didn't you win the first prize for your composition when you were a child?" She reminded me. We all try our best to forget my leg. She borrowed books from me everywhere, pushed me to go to the movies in rainy and snowy days, and hoped to find a doctor as before, asking for remedies.
When I was thirty, my first novel was published. My mother is no longer alive. A few years later, my other novel was lucky enough to win an award. It has been seven years since my mother left me.
After winning the prize, many reporters came to interview me. Everyone is very kind and thinks that I am not easy. But I only prepared a set of words, which made me feel very uncomfortable. I shook my car and hid out, sitting in the quiet Woods of the small park, thinking to myself: Why did God call my mother back early? In a daze, I heard the answer: "Her heart is too bitter. God saw that she couldn't stand it and called her back. " My heart got a little comfort. I opened my eyes and saw the wind blowing in the Woods.
I staggered out of there and wandered around the street, not wanting to go home.
We moved after mother died. I seldom go to the yard where my mother lived again. This small yard is at the end of a big yard. I occasionally go to sit in the big yard, but I don't want to go, arguing that it is inconvenient to get my hands in. The old ladies in the yard still regard me as their children and grandchildren, especially when they think that I have lost my mother again, but they say nothing but idle work, blaming me for not going often. I sat in the middle of the yard, drinking my boss's tea and eating melons from my hometown. One year, people finally mentioned their mother again: "Go and have a look in the small yard. The acacia planted by your mother has blossomed this year! " "My heart is shaking, but I still say that it is too difficult to get in and out of the trolley. Let's stop talking and talk about something else. Speaking of the young couple who lived in the house we used to live in, the woman just gave birth to a son. The child didn't cry or make trouble, but just stared at the tree in the window.
I didn't expect the tree to be alive. That year, my mother went to the labor bureau to find a job for me. When I came back, I dug a newly unearthed "mimosa" on the roadside. I thought it was mimosa, and it grew in a flowerpot, but it was actually a acacia. Mother never liked those things, but at that time her mind was elsewhere. The next year, the acacia tree didn't sprout, and my mother sighed, but she didn't want to throw it away, so she still let it grow in the clay pot. In the third year, the acacia tree grew leaves again and flourished. Mother was happy for many days, thinking it was a good sign, and often went to play with it, fearing that she would not be careful again. After another year, she took the acacia out of the pot and planted it on the ground in front of the window. Sometimes she says, I don't know how many years this tree will last. Another year, we moved. Sadness made us forget the little tree.
Instead of wandering in the street, I think I'd better go and see that tree. I also want to see the room where my mother lived again. I always remember that there was a child who just came into the world, staring at the tree without crying or making trouble. Is it the shadow of that acacia tree? There is only that tree in the yard.
The old ladies in the yard still welcomed me so much, pouring tea in the East Room, lighting cigarettes in Westinghouse and sending them to me. Everyone doesn't know about my award, maybe they do, but they don't think it's important; He also asked me about my legs and whether I had a formal job. It's really impossible to roll the car into the yard this time. The small kitchen in front of every house has been enlarged, and the aisle is so narrow that a person can get in and out by bicycle. I asked about acacia. Everyone says it blooms every year and grows to the height of the house. So, I'll never see it again. It's not impossible if I ask someone to go behind my back. I regret not going in to have a look by myself two years ago.
I rocked slowly along the street, in no hurry to go home. Sometimes people just want to be alone. Sadness has also become enjoyment.
One day when children grow up, they will think of their childhood, the swaying trees and their mothers. He will run to see the tree. But he doesn't know who planted the tree and how.
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