The sky in the village is still so high. The blue sky is like a pure lake, with several white clouds floating. On the hill under the blue sky, an old tree stands alone at the top of the slope. There are green grass and yellow flowers everywhere. It was a small tree that my mother asked us to plant when she left, and planted it in front of her lonely grave. She said she wanted to see us grow into towering trees.
Mother has left us for many years. When you feed us bitter vegetable soup, we have left this small village with only five families, walked into the city you have been talking about all your life, and lived in a building you have never seen in your life. You see, the grandchildren who have been coaxed are also married and married, and they are thriving. Like the big tree in front of your grave, it supports a shade.
It is on the threshing floor outside this yard that your figure of breaking corn crouches into a sculpture, which will be branded in our hearts forever. The mountain wind of the years has carved rings on your once-flowered face. Your soft hands, once as white as lotus root and boneless, have been ground thin and rough by the stone mill in the courtyard, like a knotted root. Every day, every day, you are repeating an old ballad. Only when we come back from the school outside the mountain will your dusty face smile brightly.
My mother raised seven brothers and sisters, five men and two women. The local people are envious, saying that it is a reunion of five men, two women and seven children, which means auspiciousness. All five of us love studying, which really makes our parents proud. There are many adults in the family, and my mother is the hardest person in the family. I work like my father during the day, and I have to cook, raise chickens and feed pigs when I get home. And feed a flock of geese and ducks in the river near the village. The cost of our school depends on the chickens and ducks raised by my mother and the pigs we feed.
Every night, the village snores, but you light the oil lamp like a bean. In the dim light, you sew the upper and lower soles of a family with hemp rope. At sixes and sevens, the hemp wadding is dipped in saliva by you. With a stiff palm, twist it into a slender hemp rope on your skinny calf, and the slender needle passes through the soles of thousands of layers, putting their beautiful youth and selfless love into the soles. Rub beautiful black hair into gray, and rub a pair of beautiful bright big eyes into turbidity. Until one day, you hold the needle in one hand and the thread in the other, and hold it in your eyes for a long time. Whenever I see this scene, my heart can't help but tremble and deeply realize the heavy connotation of Ode to a Wanderer. "The thread in the mother's hand makes clothes for her wayward son, carefully sewing and mending them, for fear of delaying his coming home late, and an inch of grass gets much love from Sanchunhui." This eternal swan song can't help ringing in my ears, making me burst into tears.
Every day at sunrise, my father drives the sheep to the hillside, and you will kneel in the millet field with a hoe and weed the grass tree by tree. It's like I'm playing with my children, and I put all my expressions into it.
Until one day, your little feet that have been entangled in the world for a lifetime can't move any more. Curled up on the heatable adobe sleeping platform, trying to open a pair of dull and empty eyes, expecting our return. ...
Bury mother on the hillside outside the village, where feng shui is very good. You can see my cave, and you can also see that the path at the entrance of the village extends far away, because that's where we pass every time we come back. Mother is always looking forward to our return.
After mother's funeral, we will go to work. Once the motor of the car rings, it won't start under any circumstances. We guess my mother must be reluctant to part with us. So we two brothers went to our mother's grave again, burned some paper money, said goodbye to our mother, and the bus really started?
Over the years, we are also full of white hair, but we miss our mother more and more. We often go back to the village to see, stop at the mother's grave and recall the maternal love of childhood bathing. ...