This year's Spring Festival, I still stick to the battle position. I recall that since graduating from military school, I have only returned home for the New Year twice. I am happy in my heart, usually new year, in addition to being a platoon leader, instructors and entertaining with everyone, the rest of the time prefer to read and cut newspapers alone, write something, not much of a festive sense of ceremony.
In the past, when the old woman called and asked how she was doing in the military year, I always liked to say that it was very lively and rich, and I did not dare to say it completely truthfully. Now that I think about it, there are indeed many words that my mother can't say.
"Son, how did you spend the festival?" "It's time for dinner, a pot full of meat!" Eating is very enjoyable..." Once stationed abroad for training, it was the Mid-Autumn Festival, the old woman called again, and I happily comforted her. In fact, what I didn't tell her was that on that day, I just put the "guy thing" of the dinner outside, and it was windy and threatening to rain. Everyone quickly pulled a few mouthfuls of rice, put down the dishes and chopsticks, and immediately ran to their respective equipment vehicles, checked the status, removed the camouflage, and acted until late at night, interspersed with many courses, returned to the camp, and even had no strength to jump from the car.
I was a child who grew up with my mother, who worked in the field for many years and could only meet once in a month or two. Every day when my mother picked me up from work, I would talk about school when I was young on the road--how many points I scored on the exam, what new friends I met, who I didn't want to play with anymore... My mother listened patiently and discussed with me in a similar way.
When I was older and went to high school and college, my mother and I still had nothing to say, and I would tell her which girl I liked, and she would also help the staff. Once, I said that I had written a letter to the girl, and on the other end of the phone, the mother was still very anxious to say to her father: "Son, these two strokes, how can I write letters to others..."
The mother of the child was worried, but she put on the military uniform, went from the military academy to the grass-roots level, and left more than a thousand miles. The farther you go, the longer your mother's worries will be. Because of this, my confusion and annoyance are not willing to tell my mother more, for fear that she will remember and be anxious with her. More often than not, just a few words about the latest situation.
When I was in graduate school, I was in the summer vacation, and my mentor and mother were in transit in my hometown by car, and I met and chatted with my parents about when I was a soldier in the northeast, and at first I was not used to eating the food there, and I was hungry. I picked up a sentence in passing, in the summer when I was a soldier in the army, every day was high-intensity training and heavy physical labor, and sometimes the meals I ate in the morning were digested at nine or ten o'clock in the morning. The speaker has no intention, the listener intends. Maybe I thought of coming back from vacation and I became black and thinner, and tears kept swirling in my mother's eyes. For us, suffering has become a precious experience and wealth, our glory and pride, and we have also found our own value and happiness in this kind of life. But the suffering of the child, the mother has never forgotten. She may not fully understand your life pursuits, your deeds and achievements, but she is most concerned about whether you eat well, sleep warmly, and be happy or unhappy.
One year, for the New Year, I took home my first military merit badge, hung it on my mother's chest, and took a picture together. The mother's expression was not so relaxed. I didn't mention it, but I couldn't stop my mother from thinking more. I guess she may be thinking of her son's long journeys, repeated meals and camping, and staying up late to work overtime.
Every soldier left home through the sight of his mother. When I talked on the phone, my mother was always like a detective, through a cough, a change in tone, to judge whether I was sick or not. And I gradually learned not to complain, not to make a child, and at the same time to carefully "guard" against small physical problems and small troubles at work being detected by my mother and making her worry. Later, when I was an instructor and an organ officer, I encountered major and minor affairs of young comrades, and while actively coordinating and solving them, I always did not forget to advise, first do not tell my family that my parents are worried.
Sometimes the words that are not spoken to the mother, in addition to hard work, there are also beautiful. The happiest concealment ever felt is also related to the mother. I remember when I was on a job inspection, a young man who had just been transferred to a non-commissioned officer was about to usher in the first vacation of the military, and talked to him about his plans, he said: "I want to go back secretly, not tell the family, hurry up on the day of my mother's birthday, when I leave work, suddenly appear at the door of the house, give her a surprise, and then gather the whole family together, invite the elders to have a meal, and give my mother the most lively birthday..." I always remember the happy look and language when he looked forward to it.
Now think about it, some words are not diaphragms, but understanding and concern, many words that want to be said to the mother, buried in the bottom of the heart, precipitated into love for the mother, but also our military career has accumulated endless spiritual strength. They melt into our work and life, making us warm and calm, soft and strong.
Source: Rocket Soldier Newspaper
Editor: Yang Shufang
Recommended for night reading in previous periods
If you like it, poke it