Appreciation of Shi Tiesheng's prose: Albizia Julibrissin Tree
There is one of the most beautiful sounds in the world, and that is the call of mother. --Dante
When I was 10 years old, I won first place in an essay competition. My mother was still young at that time, and she was eager to tell me about herself, saying that her compositions were even better when she was a child, and the teacher didn’t even believe that such good articles could be written by her. "The teacher came to the family and asked if the adults at home had helped. I might not have been 10 years old at that time." I was disappointed and smiled deliberately: "Maybe? What do you mean 'maybe not yet'?" She said Just explain. I pretended not to care about what she said and played ping pong against the wall, which made her very angry. But I admit that she is smart and that she is the most beautiful woman in the world. She is making herself a skirt with blue background and white flowers.
When I was 20 years old, both of my legs were disabled. In addition to painting Easter eggs for others, I thought I should do something else. I changed my mind several times and finally wanted to learn writing. My mother was no longer young at that time, and because of my legs, she began to have gray hair on her head. The hospital has made it clear that there is currently no cure for my disease. But my mother was still focused on treating me. She looked for doctors everywhere and asked for folk remedies, and spent a lot of money. She could always find some weird medicines for me to take, drink, or wash, apply, smoke, or moxibustion. "Don't waste your time, it's useless!" I said. All I wanted to do was write a novel, as if it could rescue disabled people from their predicaments. "Try again. How would you know it won't work if you don't try?" She held on to hope every time she said it. However, when it comes to my legs, I am disappointed as many times as I hope. The last time, I got burns on my crotch. The doctor at the hospital said that this was too dangerous. For paralyzed patients, this was almost a fatal matter. I wasn't too scared, I thought it would be nice to die, it would be a happy death. My mother was frightened for several months, watching me day and night. As soon as the dressing was changed, she would say, "Why did I get burned? I was always paying attention!" Fortunately, the wound healed, otherwise she would have gone crazy.
Later she discovered that I was writing a novel. She told me: "Then write it carefully." I could tell that she finally gave up on curing my leg. "I also liked literature when I was young. When I was about the same age as you now, I also thought about writing. Didn't you get first place in your composition when you were a child? Then try writing." She reminded me. We both tried our best to forget about my legs. She went everywhere to borrow books for me, pushed me to watch movies in the rain or snow, and held out hope just like she used to find doctors and folk remedies for me.
When I was 30 years old, my first novel was published, but my mother was no longer alive. A few years later, another of my novels also won an award. It had been seven years since my mother left me.
After winning the award, more reporters came to interview. Everyone has good intentions and thinks it’s not easy for me. But I only prepared one set of words, and I felt upset after saying them. I rocked the car and hid. Sitting in the quiet woods of the small park, I thought: Why did God call my mother back so early? Drowsily, I heard the answer: "She was in too much pain. God saw that she couldn't bear it anymore, so he called her back." My heart felt a little comforted, and I opened my eyes and saw the wind blowing in the woods.
I drove away from there and wandered around the street, not wanting to go home.
After my mother passed away, we moved. I rarely go to the small courtyard where my mother lived. The small courtyard is at the end of a large courtyard. I occasionally drive the car to the large courtyard to sit there, but I don't want to go to the small courtyard because it is inconvenient to go in with a handcart. The old ladies in the yard still regard me as their son or grandson, especially considering that I have lost my mother, but they don't say anything, they just gossip and blame me for not going there often. I sat in the courtyard, drinking tea from my employer and eating melons from my employer. One year, people finally mentioned my mother again: "Go to the small yard and have a look. The acacia tree planted by your mother has bloomed this year!" I felt a tremor in my heart, but I still said it was too difficult to get in and out of the handcart. Everyone stopped talking and got busy talking about other things. They talked about the house where we used to live and now a young couple. The woman had just given birth to a son. The child didn’t cry or fuss. He just stared at the shadow of the trees on the window. Son.
I didn’t expect that tree to be alive. That year, my mother went to the Labor Bureau to find a job for me. When she came back, she dug up a newly unearthed green seedling on the side of the road. She thought it was a mimosa, but when she planted it in a flowerpot, it turned out to be an albizia tree. My mother had always liked those things, but her mind was elsewhere at that time. The albizia tree did not sprout the next year. My mother sighed and was unwilling to throw it away, so she still let it stay in the pot. In the third year, the Albizia Julibrissin tree not only grew leaves, but also became more lush. My mother was happy for many days, thinking it was a good sign, and often went to take care of it without being too careless. Another year later, she moved the Albizia Julibrissin tree out of its pot and planted it on the ground in front of the window. Sometimes she wondered how many years it would take for this tree to bloom. Another year later, we moved, and our sorrow made us all forget about the little tree.
Rather than wandering around the street, I thought it would be better to go look at that tree. I also want to see the room where my mother lived again. I always remember that there was a child there who had just come into the world, neither crying nor making any fuss, staring at the shadows of the trees. Is it the shadow of the acacia tree?
The old ladies in the yard still like me so much. They pour tea in the east room and light cigarettes in the west room and bring them to me. Everyone knows that I won the award, maybe, but they don’t think it is very important; they still ask about my legs and whether I have a formal job. This time, it was really impossible to drive the car into the small courtyard.
The small kitchens in front of every house have been enlarged, and the aisles are so narrow that even a person pushing a bicycle has to turn sideways. I asked about the Albizia Julibrissin tree, and everyone said it bloomed every year and grew as tall as the house. Let's just say I can't see it anymore. It's not impossible if I ask someone to carry me to see it. I regret not driving my car in the past two years to have a look.
I drove slowly down the street, not wanting to go home in a hurry. Sometimes people just want to be alone for a while. Sadness also becomes enjoyment.
One day, that child grew up. He will think of his childhood, the swaying tree shadows, and his own mother. He would run and look at the tree. But he will not know who planted the tree or how.