Qingming, remembering | the 629th day my father left me

Wen | Snow Cherry

This Qingming Festival is the 629th day that my father left me. Don't ask me why I remember it so clearly, because since he left, I have regarded every day as my last day, feeling that every day is earned, overflowing with the grace of Heaven.

Pain, like a python spitting out its core in the deep mountains and dense forests, always inadvertently sneaks in, bites my heart, and hurts and hurts, but the blade does not see blood. Unspeakable pain is more painful than the pain itself—it is a feeling of being suspended in the air, not that the whole world has abandoned me, but that I have been hollowed out by the pain. When my father left, he didn't leave a word, and later I slowly figured it out, and he was worried about me. Because there are too many worries, it can't be said. When my father first left, I wanted to escape, and every day when I opened my eyes, it was all about him, and then I slowly understood that I could not go, and I wanted to guard some kind of memory here: his childhood and my childhood, and his youth and my youth.

Spring has a special meaning for me, it is a nightmare, and it is also a new birth. It is spring when the disease is onset, spring when it is seriously ill, and nirvana is reborn in the spring. I still remember that in the early spring of 2002, Xinhua Bookstore built a warehouse-style store in the north of the city, and my father heard that it had just opened, so he rode a tricycle to take me around. He got off the night shift and went out of his way to find someone to paint the carriages of the tricycle red. At that time, I was suspended from school and at home, and my heart was bitter and inferior. Every day when the sun was just right in the afternoon, we appeared in the bookstore on time, and there was almost no one in the huge bookstore, only the workers pushing the cart back and forth. I stopped at the literary shelves, and my father seemed to be deliberately away from me, but never ran out of my sight, lest I find him if something happened. The number of times I went, I became fond of interacting with outsiders, although taking hormone drugs led to "full moon face" and "buffalo back", the body was like fermented, not out of shape, but when I went out, I was no longer afraid of those strange eyes. Once, after visiting the bookstore, he took me to a small square nearby to see kite flyers. Looking up, a colorful centipede kite swayed in the air, and the old man who flew the kite sat still on the matza, like a Maitreya Buddha. My right knee couldn't bend, and I walked and turned like a stupid duck. Maybe i was a little tired, and I was sitting in the tricycle when the kite suddenly fell out of control and scraped the branches of the tree next to me. When my father saw this scene, he let me sit firmly and immediately pushed the tricycle to run over, and he stepped on the tricycle to help the old man enough kites. The wind was so strong that the hissing roar hurt my ears and caused some kind of vibration. Once not, twice failed, the father sweated heavily, simply took off his coat, and finally successfully "picked" the kite for the third time. The old man kept saying "thanks", and I noticed that his left leg was short, it should be a leg disease, and the kite flew for exercise.

The kindness and sincerity in my father's bones are the rich legacy left to me. After he left, all the words he had said woke up, and the stubbornness in his bones and blood also woke up, and he was fulfilled in some way. Zhou Daxin wrote in "Requiem": "In all the human relationships in the world, only mother and son, mother-daughter relationship and father-son, father-daughter relationship are least driven by interests, only these two relationships can withstand the multiple impacts of interests, are relatively pure, and maintain them mainly rely on human nature and instinct." "We always understand after losing that losing itself is a lesson: the first half of life is used to take or possess, and the second half is used to lose or give up. But how easy is it to accept loss? Fortunately, there is literature, there is a sea of books, there is a fragrance of flowers, there are birdsong, slowly calming my mind, so that I realize that life is death, death is life, and every day of living in the present is practicing death. However, it is only when death sits opposite that we can taste life.

The first spring rain of the year arrived as promised, and the sound of knocking and beating disturbed my heart, and the six gods were busy without a master. There was also an even heavier rain in the body, forcing thoughts out of their eyes and turning into tears. That afternoon, I fell asleep to the sound of the rain, and was woken up by the ringing of my mobile phone, which turned out to be the phone of the health insurance department. The call had been waiting so long that I had forgotten it. The little girl spoke smartly and explained. The hopes I saw were shattered again, and it was expected. Maybe it was to hear my frustration, she said: "I have read your book, I like it, I want to continue to write, we are all waiting to read!" I was surprised and overjoyed, overwhelmed. If my father were still alive, how good it would be for him to hear. Thinking about it instead, the River of Life and Death is not out of reach, he may have heard it and was smiling at me! For twenty-three years, the pain in the body has not decreased because of the passage of time, but has been increasing, and it has been difficult to sleep all night, sometimes when I do not want to live, when I am helpless and helpless, and the only thing I insist on is for my parents. The poet Lu also wrote in the Father's Four-Year Sacrifice: "I lived for four years in the world he did not have, inheriting his savings and disabilities / Partial Security Chinese Frontier / Heart in the north of the city, in the south of the city / Writing to him every day, never getting an echo / The earth circled around the sun in four full circles / Four times skimmed the edge of heaven, where the roof of the world is near the roof of the world / Whenever I look up, I always hear a cloud saying to me: / I am waiting for you in heaven." "Separation is for a better reunion, and one day we will meet."

Qingming is a solar term, but also a personality. Seventeen years ago, that spring, Grandpa left this world forever. At noon that day, my father carried the thermos bucket and dragged his left leg into the house, his face was sallow, his eyes were sunken, and he sat paralyzed in a chair, unable to move, as if he had exerted all his strength to spit out a sentence: "Your grandfather... Gone, didn't expect... So fast. "I was dumbfounded, my mind was blank, I wanted to cling to something, but I didn't catch anything. The day of Grandpa's funeral was the Qingming Festival, the temperature was surprisingly high, wearing a shirt felt hot, and the wind stomped on his feet and shook the sky, as if to crush the pain and pain of the world.

Now, father and grandfather meet in heaven, and they can drink again, one persuading the other to drink less, and the other to say that the other is stubborn. After a period of silence, neither of them obeyed the other, which made people laugh and cry.