When Qing was fifteen years old, a car accident took away her legs, and the wheelchair became her closest friend. She likes to read poetry, likes the beautiful mood in the poem, or solemn, or majestic, or beautiful, or poignant, or lost, or long and deep. She likes Tang poetry and envisions the magnificence of the great river; she likes Song Ci and laments the fall of the setting sun. In that era when materials were not abundant, she read the "Notes on three hundred songs of Song Ci" given to her by her brother, and she was afraid of losing the book, and began to copy it one by one on her beloved green notebook. She has many excerpts, poems, essays, small stories, and collections of famous quotes, and she likes to copy down the beautiful sentences, paragraphs, and articles she reads.
Time flies, and the green years pass quietly in reading. She didn't complain about the injustice of fate, and even thanked life for giving her so much time to read, and she liked to wander quietly in books. Slowly, she began to write. She saw a message in the magazine, signed up for a Tianjin Literary Society, she tried to send her own works to the teacher, a young girl's pursuit of the future, the yearning for love, the vision of the ideal, through her tiny nib overflowing on the end of the paper. She just quietly sent out her own article, and then a person happily read the teacher's reply. Finally, her article was published in The New Writer, and although it was only an internal publication, she was very excited. She happily showed the work to her brother and to her good friends. Later, she published five or six small essays in succession.
By chance, she met a boy who also loved words. The boy sent her a big picture and wrote to tell her that when the boy was eleven years old, because of the high fever injection penicillin, he could not hear the sound of the world from then on, but he liked words, and the beautiful words made him feel the rushing of the big river, the scream of the goshawk, the joy of the spring, the joy of the cicadas, he liked the majesty of "the desert is lonely and straight, the long river is full of sunsets", and he also liked the solemnity of "the big river is up and down, and the sudden loss is gushing", he likes the "spring water rocks, the sound of the water; the good birds sing, and the good birds sing each other, and the sound of the rhyme", and he likes it more." The peaks are like gathering, the waves are like anger, the mountains and rivers are surging in the tongguan road, and the pride of "chaotic rocks piercing through the air, shocking waves lapping at the shore, rolling up a thousand piles of snow" has become the most majestic scenery in his heart. He said that he liked Qing's words and the delicate and abundant feelings behind them.
One day, the girl wrote a letter saying that she wanted to see the Yellow River, especially when it was snowing, not the solidification of the frozen river, but the silent solemnity of the snow falling on the Yellow River, because it made people think of thousands of reverie: how many heroic men once swore here and died generously, how many heroic children once shed tears here and took a stand to serve the country, how many literati and inkers once chanted poems and sang lyrics, praised and praised... How she wished to stand on the bank of the Yellow River on a snowy day, feel the falling of snowflakes, the silence of the great river, the shuttle of history... The boy knows that for a person with paralyzed legs, her world needs someone to open another window! She had no feet, but he did; the realm she sought was also his attachment. That winter, he borrowed a camera, bought a ticket to Luoyang, and he was going to live by the Yellow River on a silent winter day waiting for snow. The winter moon passed, there was no snow, he saw the thin ice on the shore turn into snow when the sun first rose, and he took pictures one by one. Halfway through the lunar month, after a north wind, the weather was suddenly cold, and it did snow on the day of the winter solstice. Getting up early in the morning, the snowflakes in his arms, he ran excitedly to the Yellow River, from the early morning to the night, he remembered the scene of his interaction with her, he pulled out the articles she wrote, he felt the innocent and warm yearning of a young girl. Of course, he took many photos, the big river is the background, the snowflakes are the main body, the river is static, the snowflakes are moving, the water of the Yellow River is clear, and the crystal snowflakes are transparent. Snowflakes are like a kind heart, looking for the direction of life, quietly falling into the river. He carefully selected a hundred photographs, packed them in a large envelope, and rode the train to the city where the girl was.
When he stood in front of the girl, the girl was pleasantly surprised. When he took out the pictures, the girl's eyes were moistened. She looked at the boy, and the boy called Ming, and he had a pair of clear eyes, and in those eyes there was not only the Yellow River, there were snowflakes, but there was also clear sky, there were birds, there was poetry. Qing said, "Thank you! The boy said: "I also like the solemn, silent splendor of the snow falling on the Yellow River, next year it will snow, we are together!" ”
Outside the window, the sun is shining, the sky is clear, the ice and snow are melting, and everything is safe.
Editor-in-charge: Wang Fang YuanXiu Ruogu
About the Author
Zhang Wenli, a native of Jiyuan, Henan. Now Yanqing foreign Chinese school teaching, love life, like to read, optimistic.