on the winter solstice, my father celebrated his 45th birthday. In the years when I passed the age of no doubt and gradually learned my destiny, my father liked silence and loss.
In an old house in a village in southern Shaanxi, my father set up a fire pit at a corner of 9 degrees. Semi-dry firewood produces heat that is half smoke and half fire. Every winter is smoky, and the walls on both sides are painted black and bright. Father sat down by the fireplace and lit a cheap cigarette.
The bronze pot on the fireplace can't recognize its original appearance, and the water in the pot has not boiled yet, and it is ringing. Someone once wrote this sound like a ballad in an article, but unfortunately I have never found this feeling. Looking at my father's smoking, the semi-bright orange fireworks are like a lonely eye in this dark corner.
The fire in the fireplace began to jump, and the light and shadow were burning in the small house. Father said, I want to drink a pot of old wine.
While my father finished smoking 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 beside me is motionless, squinting, enjoying the warmth radiated from the fire pond, simple and happy!
two white porcelain cups, all solid colors, are small and exquisite. Father lifted the hip flask and filled two glasses, and the hops were United. The rich smell of wine scattered on the tip of my father's nose. Father picked up the glass with his other hand, as if he couldn't wait, but also as if he was reluctant to go. After tasting the first cup, the smell of wine immediately came alive in my father's body. I've 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, my first cup was not finished.
I saw my father's face flush with red, the fading heroic spirit in his eyes, his stubble that lost its luster and faded, the lofty sentiments hidden from his brow, and even his once lofty aspirations vanished in the years. Father is old and silent. It's always because it was a long time ago, and now it seems that it's just self-deception in the text. This glass of wine even showed me what my father looked like many years later.
The acridity of wine still lingers between my Adam's apple. My father said that men should learn to drink.
Father sipped his wine, which was unspeakable. This kind of wine is the product of this unique subtropical climate in southern Shaanxi, and it is the only one. Father's brewing technology is also famous in Fiona Fang Baili. Many years later, if my father can think of it, he may be proud of it.
My father many years ago was full of heroic spirit. A glass of wine is a chapter that my father still talks about. In my father's life, I can't tell you exactly what unspeakable stories he had. 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 mountains, my father transformed the scenery there with his wisdom and built the mountains and rivers there with his hands. Once great achievements, now it seems insignificant and indifferent in the corner of the city. Many touching traces are therefore hidden in my father's memory.
This glass of wine can easily remind my father of the past. Now my father can't make any more expressions except a sigh from his heart. Many years ago, my father would have taken out the ancient erhu and played many country tunes of unknown origin. But now, those palpitations that my father didn't sing can only gradually live in the memory of occasional. Seeing my father's cocoon-covered hands spread out in front of the fireplace, I didn't feel kind, but I didn't say anything bitter.
My father lit a second cigarette, but he didn't smoke it. I watched the cigarette burn out alone in the translucent air, and the gray ash fell off one by one. My father stood still, like a wise man, but he didn't say anything profound.
After the cigarette burned out, my father had almost finished tasting the brewed white wine in the pot. Two white wine glasses, like twin brothers. Father's face was flushed. I filled two wine glasses, and the wine in the pot was just emptied. Father said, if you drink any more, you will get drunk. I shook the hip flask and said, just one last glass. Father smiled faintly.
My father's faint smile makes me remember clearly, whether it is simple or complicated, and I haven't distinguished it for a long time. He picked up the glass and lifted his head, clean and tidy. Many years ago, my father was resurrected in his old pot of wine.
my father blushed and asked me if it was snowing. I said, it's floating sporadically, and it's estimated that it will stay at night. Father said, it's time for a heavy snow.
The plain snow, all white, covered the glory in the world, in the next morning.