Qingwei | untitled poem of the old garden

Zhu Weijun

At this time, I walked in my own hometown, bathed in a strong sense of nostalgia. People are like a kite, or like a bird, no matter how high and far you fly, there is always a wisp of nostalgia to hold, that root, but it is deeply rooted in the soil of the soul, even if you drag a branch and a leaf, the heart will hurt.

The village was shrouded in a hazy haze of flickering lights and darkness, and it was more than three o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun was still gray, stingily offering a rare bright color. The moisture is mixed with the breeze, and a trace of waste plastic and feces mixed in the sniffles may be the characteristics of the old garden: the so-called industrial park is a waste plastic recycling and processing distribution center, perhaps compared with the small family-style workshops that fought for each other, it has upgraded the operation level and reduced pollution; the crops around the village, the vegetable garden roadside, still from time to time emerge from the grave-like dung piles. The village has become unrecognizable, I admit that it has combined many characteristics of the times and modern consciousness, and people's lives are no longer what they used to be, as evidenced by the rows of new tile houses and even two or three-storey buildings, and the appearance of the new countryside has begun to emerge. But in the face of this change, there is an inexplicable emotion in my heart, and I don't know whether it is joy or sorrow, blessing or sadness. The beauty of those childhood memories has almost disappeared without a trace.

Let's say that the vast industrial park in front of you, the rows of factories, although simple, have gradually become a climate, and the rumbling machines have sprung out of the high walls and flew towards the gray sky. Here, once the most extensive and fertile land in the village in memory, probably hundreds of acres, the soil is black and dull, a pinch, even can flow water, called drought and flood to ensure the harvest of the good land, at that time was called "cornucopia" by the villagers. My essay, "Night Tide Land," which was selected by the Selected Essays, describes the story here. But now, on this once-abundant fertile land, an industrial park has grown that makes many people ecstatic and proud. Maybe it brought huge profits to the villagers, but in my heart, it lost its inherent soul.

I used a plough rake and my feet to dig deep over the wet, thick soil

Sow the seeds and dreams there

Wheat rice corn peanuts, those species known as crops

In my care flashes the joy of growing up

Eventually saving my carefree days in the grain hoard

It was gone, and resolutely did not say hello to me

Maybe it fills people's bags with plenty

But I clearly saw the land where the rape had been carried out

I couldn't stop trembling and crying

Born in Si and raised in Si, the old garden gave me life my innocence, and also brought infinite happy times to my childhood and youth. As I walked along the edge of the village, I tried to pick up the memories of the ponds and rivers. Around the village in my memory, there are six Ponds full of aura, and the water surface is as little as tens of acres and as many as hundreds of acres. At that time, the huge Pond was full of water and the fish were shallow. In the summer, patches of lush green reeds sway in the breeze, and flocks of geese and ducks pluck the waves with red palms. In winter, Wang Tang is frozen and reed flowers bloom. There are free-range fish in the pond, and the fish jump happily on the surface of the water from time to time. It was a paradise for us children, and as soon as we entered the summer, we sneaked there after school, threw off our simple pants vests, and plunged a fierce man into the water, feeling a comfortable and fresh breath all over her body. Of course, there are also people who have paid the price with their lives for this. For example, the Wang Pond in the east of the village, the water depth is six or seven meters, even if there is a drought for many years, it has never dried up, and it is said that there are deep abysses in the pond, and people often drown. But that didn't affect our play in the water. But now, I have walked through several ponds in the village, except for the only one that has shrunk into a small stinky pond, and the rest have all disappeared, replaced by newly built shiny tile houses, which may be full of happiness. I was devastated. There were also two small rivers in the village, and in the clear water, fish were swimming. On holidays, I will go to the river to cut a section, pour dry water, and I will definitely harvest one or two pounds of fish. My mother complained that I had wasted some of her oil while still happily frying fish. Roll up the pancakes, that's a real incense. But now, the river has almost stopped flowing, and what little water remains is floating with discarded plastic and rotten weeds. Fortunately, hearing that the relevant departments want to invest in cleaning up and renovating this small river is a small comfort to my heartache.

If I could cross, I would like to go back to my childhood in my memory

It's like taking refuge in a mother's womb, in a peach garden

Red fat green skinny our love

Wang Tang, the river to pick up children's fun

The night of frolicking laughter, storyteller

The combination of erhu and pedal sound, a broken voice

Interpreting those long-ago Sui and Tang dynasties

Memories have become distant

Childlike fun has been buried by the dust of time

I can only look for it in my dreams

Those that were once beautiful

I wandered around the main street in the village, the street was much wider, the road had long been hardened, and it was clear and dangling. A few years ago, the village party secretary was also my hair small, and I was told with a smile on the phone that the village is now engaged in village communication, and the road and main street from the provincial road to the village should be rebuilt and hardened. All the people in the village must raise funds and donate money, and those who work outside also need to support the construction of the new countryside in the village, how much is not limited, of course, it is not mandatory. I said the duty is unshirkable, yes, yes. For this reason, I went back to my hometown and offered a little of my heart. When I returned to the village again, I couldn't say that the village roads and streets were repaired, it completely changed the appearance of the village, and it was no longer the dusty days of the past. Muddy water flows on rainy days. I sent a novel, you have done a great thing for the village, and it is the tree that should be erected. He smiled and said, you can go to the entrance of the village to see, it is really a tree monument, and there is your name on the monument. As for the biography, that's your big writer's business, and you have the opportunity to write our village history. I laughed and said nothing, but as far as the history of the village is concerned, it is worth writing a big book. But now I find that the streets of the village are much quieter, except for the elderly, women and children, and the pedestrians are sparse. I know that the younger men and women went out to work. Yes, they can't afford to idle, in another wider world, they start a business to make money, although they are like the crops growing in the city, enduring hardships and even contemptuous eyes and angry scolding, but they have no choice. They left, but what was left for the village was a long night of silence.

Season after season of crops, breathing

Sunshine rain and women's breath grow

Sweat and tears wet her gaze of acacia

Will that person look back at her at this time?

The mother-in-law on the hospital bed couldn't stop complaining, scolding her love for her son

Rubbing her rough hands, stroking apologies

She said mother, what do you say, he is not for this family

Mother-in-law and daughter-in-law embraced each other, warming each other's love

The child's teacher calls over and over again

Left her with a little resentment

At night, when the stars and moons are asleep

Loneliness struck, lips that had dried out for a long time

I sipped it myself and thought only about it

Wrap themselves in the duvet together and warm the one

Cold heart

The year is approaching, and it is time for him to return

I didn't go back to town that night and stayed at my cousin's house—he wouldn't let me go, saying he hadn't seen me for a long time. It is better to be respectful than to obey, so let's stay. In fact, there is a house in my own house, which is a new house built on the collapsed old house homestead. This house was not originally planned to be built, because no one went back to live, but the uncles and aunts of the same clan said, let's turn over the old house, and when your father is a hundred years later, you must use it. Thinking about it too, the four brothers each took out some money, let the cousin take full authority to operate it, and built three ordinary bungalows. The house was empty without any living utensils. That night, the uncles and brothers also had a small drink hu tianhaidi, dizzy, really dizzy. After the dinner, I said I would go to my house to have a look. In the small courtyard, my brother planted four flower trees, which were flourishing at this time, perhaps implying the lives of the four of us brothers. Near the south wall, is a small piece of bamboo, "it is better to eat no meat, not to live without bamboo", the younger brother when planting bamboo, quoted Mr. Itabashi's words. Our brothers were born here, grew up here, and all the joys and sorrows were interpreted here.

Childhood was planted there, deeply rooted in thick walls

My childlike fun is entangled with the rings of the old house

Until, of course, it finally pushed my childhood away

I still see it as

The most beautiful daddy

Years later, I watched the city's buildings

Living in a spacious and clean, remote old home

It exposes the embarrassment in front of you, such as

Father's thin bones, mother's dry breasts

But its ugly shadow is still the same

Warm winter sun

From the temperature of the soles of the feet to the bun

New house, growing the flower of memory

Still messy

Leaving the old garden was the next morning, at the mouth of the village, I looked back at my hometown, and homesickness suddenly struck my heart again. The hometown is changing, it will become more beautiful, richer, more beautiful. But I still hope that the beauty of the past will not disappear. Maybe as I get older, I'm used to nostalgia, sentimentality, maybe my thoughts can't keep up with the times, but I can't clearly feel where I'm wrong, so let the beauty of the past remain in the depths of memory forever.

I bowed deeply to my hometown in the mist.

(Zhu Weijun is a member of the Chinese Writers Association and vice president of Linyi Municipal College of Literature.) He is the author of the essay collection "The Gift of the Homeland", "The Rural City", "Night Tide Land", the poetry collection "The Love Rhyme of the Homeland", the long-form reportage "Pfizer Dream Lanling Love" (co-authored), and some short stories have appeared in newspapers and periodicals, and some works have been awarded for national, provincial and municipal literature. ）

One point number Zhu Weijun