Wen Hui ‖ thinking of his father

□ Zhang Ji

I often think of my father, not just because of the father-son relationship, but because my father's grave is on the hill where I live. There was a curved path leading to where I lived, and my father's grave was on the right side of the path, and I had to pass by him whenever I came up the hill or down the hill. How could I not want him!

Our family's woodland was supposed to go a little higher, where my grandfather and grandmother and the ancestors of two great-grandfathers were born, but more than a decade ago, a large pit was dug behind the woodland for building roads for sand and soil. A friend who understands feng shui said after reading it that the feng shui of the woodland has been more or less affected, and suggested that our family choose a new piece. At that time, my father was still alive, and after listening to my friend's words, I insisted on choosing a new one, so I had to let my friend show it. My friend ran around the mountain, and finally looked at a new piece of land under the hillside, and my father thought that the land was good, so I planned to take this land down. The owner of that piece of land heard that our family wanted to choose woodland, and his mouth was very wide, and he wanted to pay tens of thousands of yuan at once, but his father was frightened, resolutely not, and let me dispel this idea. I knew that if I gave up, my father would have regrets. I did not talk to the owner of the land again, but took a detour and discussed with the village the possibility of transferring the whole mountain, and the village also wanted to have a suitable person to invest in development. Naturally, this woodland flowed with the whole mountain, and my father got his wish.

For a long time, my father ran up the hill to see his woodland, but more often than not, he looked at his mountain. This mountain has more than a thousand acres, and it takes more than ten thousand steps to walk down, but my father is happy to do it. I once witnessed my father climbing and crossing the slopes of a tree-lined hill on a sunny afternoon, and that day I happened to take a few design friends to the mountain to see him on the ground, and I saw him—he was wearing a gray short coat and not even a hat for shading, and the whole person stood in a green leaf, greeting me and laughing at me, and his voice and laughter were full of satisfaction.

I used to make a lot of designs for my father, such as letting him go into the city to live a life in the city, he said that he didn't like to live in the building, so I bought him a piece of land in the city and wanted to build him a villa with a yard; for example, if he wanted to go out to see, I designed one route after another for him; for example, he often remembered the colleagues and friends who worked together at the tractor station, and I was silently preparing a party for him...

However, all the designs became as light and fragile as life and accidents, and what everyone did not expect was that the living father left us due to illness in the second year of getting this woodland. His departure made all my plans and plans for him impossible and meaningless, and I always felt that doing things for my father was my motivation to move forward. I don't know if my father liked this woodland too much and couldn't wait, or if his old man had this fate in the dark, anyway, when the hearse went to the cemetery, it was particularly smooth. At that time, there were no roads on the mountain, thorns and bushes, ditches and bumps, and hearse went all the way forward, and the whole process was waveless.

Father should have liked this place, otherwise he would not have walked so urgently and hurriedly.

Father should like this place, otherwise he would not have walked so calmly and smoothly.

Father should have liked this place, otherwise he would not have stayed so calm and peaceful.

His father had been in the mountains he liked for ten years, and for ten years the vicissitudes of the world had passed. The grass at the head of the grave is green and yellow, yellow and green, how many things are in the smoke and rain, the pine in front of the grave has been dark green, the small bridge leading to the woodland has children and grandchildren stopping and going every festival, they are also growing, growing up, learning, marrying wives and having children...

In ten years, the original barren mountains have become well-known green parks, the ditches and bumps that seemed useless to him have become small bridges and flowing water, those gravel and stone slopes that seemed to him have become a pavilion, and those chaotic trees, the wild weeds that grow wildly in summer, and all kinds of unknown wildflowers have all been in place, each returned to its own place, orderly, and the place where my father climbed and crossed had a landscape avenue that could be opened to traffic...

Everything has changed dramatically, but the only constant is our long thoughts about our father. We will think of him every holiday; we will think of him when we have a good meal; we will think of him when we go out on a trip and see a beautiful view; we will think of him when we are particularly happy; we will think of him when we are particularly sad; we will think of him when we marry his daughter; we will think of him when we see his colleagues; we will think of him when we meet a figure similar to his on the street; we will think of him because of a cry that suddenly came from our ears that resembled him We will think of him when we see a tree he has planted; we will think of him when we see the old house where he lived; we will think of him when we see an old mother who is still healthy and alive... Places where we can think of him abound, everywhere!

Ten years later, for our father, how have we ever forgotten?

I often wonder what it would be like for my father to be alive and walk on the mountain now. I imagined countless times the picture of him walking on the mountain: he would light a cigarette, put his hands behind his back, walk unhurriedly in his homemade slippers, stand as he pleased, stop when he wanted; he would put away a water pipe left on the ground and put it in the warehouse; he would pound with a wrench for half a day at a tap with dripping water; he would call me over and reprimand me for the wrong position of a certain tree, and then let me move away as he wanted; he would get up in the middle of the night and shout at the room with the lights, why don't sleep, don't bother with electricity He would also deliberately walk around in front of a guest whenever I had a guest come, asking me to introduce him and tell the guest that he was my father; he would also ring the alarm bell for me just right when I was overwhelmed: make it a little big, almost, stop, take it. But, more often than not, he would carry a bottle of high wine, carry a plate of fried peanuts he made himself or the grasshoppers he caught, and find a shade of a big tree to sit and drink a small wine...

What a wonderful and happy time it was, I was willing to watch my father on the mountain doing all the things he wanted to do, even if he was wrong; I wanted all the people on the mountain, even the animals, to listen to him, even if he was wrong; I was willing to be called by him at any time, and shouted loudly without asking, even if he was wrong... I am willing to do anything for him, to be the most obedient child, as long as he can live!

However, all this is imagination, and it can only be imagined!

I've been in the mountains for almost ten years, except that I'm on the ground and my father is underground. My dwelling was less than two miles from my father's grave, and we looked at each other from a distance. When there are few leaves in winter, I can see my father's grave in my room on the second floor, and in the summer when the leaves are leafy, my father can see the lights of my study at night through the leaves. I often think that I am doing things under the gaze of my father, this gaze is invisible, potential, long-lasting, and exists all the time, he makes me feel solid, feel warm, feel responsible, but also feel protected, he also makes me dare not slacken off, can only move forward.

Countless days as long as I walk in front of my father's grave, I will silently look at it, silently say a word - when I go out, tell him that I am gone, tell him that I am back when I come back, if I walk a little longer, I will say a few more words, let my father take care of this mountain, be serious, work hard, and be on the heart, I believe that my father can hear it, and my father can do it.

On countless starry nights, I walked in the woods behind the house in front of the house, looking forward to a chance encounter with my father, and I wanted to see him come, lead him into the house, pour a good glass of wine, make a good pot of tea, and listen to him. But I never met it once. I also wished more than once that he would come in my dreams, but only in extravagant hope.

Recall that I have only dreamed of him once in all these years, and not in the mountains, but in the distant Hainan. He was still wearing the white undershirt I had bought for him and looked at me from a distance, not speaking. I think my father must have followed me to Hainan, I want my father to follow me to have a good look, that day I drove around the best places in Hainan, I also believe that my father must see it, must be happy!

Father, what else do you want to do, come and tell me in my dreams!