Gun thing| author: tapping the heartstrings

On the ramp at the entrance to the kiln, my car was straight forward, the slope of the ramp urged it, it ran fast, and suddenly the left wheel took off, leaned out to the right, and then hit the side of the earth wall and overturned. The roof of the car landed on the ground, and the wheels raised in the air turned hard a few times, and finally stopped helplessly.

I saw the lump of dirt that was holding my cart back, ran a few steps, lifted my feet to follow it and stepped on it indignantly, it was not broken, and shamelessly squeezed out from under my feet, schadenfreude, jumping and jumping happily on the ground and rolling towards the end of the ramp.

I didn't let it go, and when I was a child, I was as stubborn as I am now, snorting angrily, and chasing after it without hesitation. Just at this moment, the grandfather, who had his hand behind his back, slowly walked out of the kiln door, and there was a smile at the corner of his mouth: concern, love, nature is given to me. I couldn't care less about enjoying that love, but I just vaguely shouted "Grandpa", the footsteps did not stop, and my eyes were still fixed on the guy who had just given me anger.

As I walked around my grandfather, he reached out and gently tugged at me, and I twisted my head to see the wooden gun in his hand. Although only a short section was revealed under the grip of a large hand, I still recognized it at a glance. Stop the steps, shout softly, twist and raise your hand to take it, as for the dirt block that has been lying there quietly, I have no time to take care of it, it instantly becomes insignificant, when I was a child, I was actually not stubborn, it was easy to be impressed, and gave up the original idea and pursuit.

It was a rough handmade piece. My grandfather was not a carpenter, not a sculptor, nor did he have a hand-drawing tool that could be used to carve it, which was inevitable and certainly not to be blamed, but its advent was full of my grandfather's deep love for the next generation. And I had longed for a gun, because at new year's time there was already a green uniform, and beyond the uniform was a cowhide belt that my father had retreated but was still strong, and it was loosely tied to my waist, and its looseness was in need of a gun to fill it.

The barrel was still straight, but not very round; there was a crosshair, and it was only a tiny rough bulge that could not be compared with a real gun. I held it up in front of my eyes and pretended to shoot, the crosshairs on the barrel were on my line of sight, and I thought that if I could fire it, I could shoot a hundred shots. But there was no firing pin, no trigger to control the firing pin, and the trigger was mixed with the guard that prevented accidental triggering, just a shallow outline was carved with the knife, and my finger was on the contour line of the trigger. Of course it doesn't have bullets yet, and it doesn't need bullets.

Fluttering, without weight, is the presentation of a small piece of paulownia board for secondary life. The paint that once made the courtyard door dazzlingly black had no drops left, and it could not make it glow with a metallic texture like a real gun; there was no new furniture in the home, even if it wanted to retreat to the second place, not to dwell on its color, and to decorate it casually. It maintained its wooden color until one day it suddenly remembered but I didn't know where I had been left behind!

I remember the surprise when I first got it, but almost all the stories related to it were forgotten. In the end, it may have been hidden by me in my grandmother's cabinet, the gun was once regarded by me as a treasure, naturally placed in a safe place, and the grandmother's cabinet is the only locked in the room, it is very suitable, but with the death of her old man, there is no good food in it, and I have ignored its existence; or perhaps I have hidden in the kiln with seven or eight holes, which is where my cousin and I often turn out "treasures" from it, and where we collect what we regard as treasures. The yard above the ground is spacious and bright, there are few people entering, often silent, very safe!

Perhaps the days that followed surprised me with so many things that they easily replaced all the joys I had harvested in that yard with its kiln. The gun was thrown on the windowsill by my hand, the window sill is not big, there are many discarded and unused things, they are looked at by us day by day, after seeing countless eyes, they turn their eyes to other places, and turn around and forget; or they may be lost on a pile of rotten wood at the root of the east wall, including the wheelbarrow that has long been abandoned, they are all finally chopped into firewood, thrown into the stove pond by my grandmother, and the gun is unfortunately mixed in it, turned into ashes; but it may also be left by me in a place of play, where it is very remote, Very few people walked around, and they may remember it at the time, but for some reason they finally forgot it, and there were some ants, moths, and of course other beings, who were not interested in the gun, and let it lie quietly, or wanted to shout at me who suddenly turned back, but I could not speak, or that I could not understand, and the gun lay there forever, slowly decaying, turning into dust, and flying without a trace with a gust of wind.

Of course, there are many possibilities. In just a few decades, I've lost countless things, many of which may never be remembered again. The new things that you see every day may also be turned around and forgotten, but there are always some that will remain in the sea of the heart, drowning the past or replacing the past. The reason why I forgot the loss of that gun may also be because the brilliance of the latecomers covered it, at least this is one of the reasons.

I did end up with a tin toy gun that was closer in shape and color to the real gun, and it was not only very well done, but with the flick of the trigger, it could send out a plastic bullet that made my friends cheer, which was enough to make me give up my love for the wooden gun.

In fact, before I had that little car, I had been muttering in my father's ear many times. My father was not good at words, but he showed me amazing language organization skills when describing the toy gun placed in the counter of the provincial department store. He may have been to this many times, observed them many times, and organized the language many times in his mind. That is the driving force of great Fatherly love, and it can often produce miracles.

Then he said: I will bring it back next time. But "next time" is too much, and I have spent many days in the torment of longing and disappointment. Children naturally do not appreciate the difficulties of parenthood, they take a handful of meager wages to arrange countless things, often overstretched, difficult to cope.

Say "next time" in the evening when the sun is setting or early in the morning when the sun is rising? "Next time" was said more than once, it naturally could be any time of the day, but it must be the best time of the day! My father and I sat on a ridge next to the cliff of the earth kiln, and we could clearly see the turquoise crops not far away, and the equally turquoise poplars on the side of the road; of course, it could also be in the courtyard, and if it was in the courtyard, it must be a relatively open field of view, and when I looked up, I could see the blue of the sky and the drifting of the clouds. In short, it is also a place that is easy to make people have unlimited reverie, and the mood is naturally the best, it makes my excitement unable to calm down for a long time, and sets off layer after layer of waves. I felt as if I saw the gun, very clear, right in front of my eyes, within reach. My father's "expediency" did not alleviate it, let alone eliminate my desire, but it made me want it more and more.

It was obtained on a low night evening— it must have been a low night, or even later. It was more than a hundred miles from the provincial capital to our house, and it took four or five hours to ride a bicycle, and it took even longer to walk. With a salary of tens of dollars a month, my father was reluctant to use it to ride.

When the door was pushed open, the earth dog Kuroko or Rhubarb guarding the courtyard only made a soft groan, so small that it was almost impossible to hear. If it were a sunspot, it might still be accompanied by a gentle sound of chains, but it would not be too big, it would never be the kind of frightening noise and intimidation born of barking; rhubarb had no chains, it had never been bound, it was the only dog in our family that could walk freely, and its accidental death cut off all subsequent dogs' desire for freedom, including Kuroko of course.

I was more sensitive to hearing then than I am now, even more so when my parents came back from the city, and naturally that day. The creak of the gate, the soft groan of the earth dog, I must have gone around the corner of the knife handle yard, and in front of my eyes was the door opening hidden behind the wall of the firewood house. Father had come out of it, and as night fell, he might no longer be able to see the faces of the people who had come. But just by looking at the figure, just looking at the earth dog that hovers affectionately around, I know who it is, and I am looking forward to who he is!

My father pushed the bicycle or not, and I can't remember whether he bought the Hongqi 28 bicycle that later made a great contribution to his travel to and from the provincial city. I went to pick up his bag. Maybe he had forgotten his exhaustion when he saw me, and he didn't necessarily call my name, but I said that my father was a man of bad words, including his deep fatherly love. As soon as my hand reached him, he had already opened the bag and presented me with the iron-pressed toy gun. Because of the night, it is naturally not very clear to see, but in the dim light of the sky, you can still see its shining light, which is dazzling, I think that is the appearance of a real gun.

My running footsteps echoed in the courtyard, calling out to my grandfather, grandmother, and mother, who had just returned from work in the county, to share my happiness. My happiness must not be suppressed, and I want to release it happily.

The oil lamp that night was much brighter than usual, there was no wind, the lights could not beat, the faint smoke went straight up, the light also went up, but only the roof could not accommodate it, and after the orange light collided with it silently, it burst out like a daylight, extinguishing the darkness that fell in the corner of the room. Naturally, it also fell on the gun in my hand, on my excited face, on the loving face of my relatives, it was full of warmth and it was easy to be moved.

The gun was indeed mighty, and the pale green plastic bullets were loaded one by one, pulling the bolt, pulling the trigger, and flying towards a target with a "snap" sound. The rats were naturally already hidden in the cave, they could not see the light, but they must have been hiding at the entrance of the cave to listen to the movement in the room, and the appearance of the gun that night, the release of the bullet must have frightened them.

I pulled out the green military uniform of the New Year, tied the belt given by my father, imitated the Platon in the villain's book to pose in various different shapes, held the gun flat, squinted my eyes at every object in the room one by one, retracted it several times and inserted it in my waist, pulled it out several times, and held it up in front of me... I love it so much, I want to cherish it, I want to cherish it, as I loved the wooden gun I once had, and cherish it forever. But I lost that wooden gun and eventually one day lost it too.

I can't remember which noon that summer it was. On the poplar in front of the classroom door, cicadas sprinkle the sounds of what they think are perfect, and they have been so shameless and tireless all summer. The back door of the school, not far from Poplar, fell into disrepair, and the wooden door leaf that opened out was very improperly erected, always leaving a gap that was not large enough to pass through us when we were young.

Their footsteps were soft, passing through the narrow passage between the desks, tiptoeing out of the classroom, and then rushing toward the hidden back door. Didn't wake me up, didn't wake up the others, when did those benches and desks get lost and the owner who was lying in his morning sleep? No one knew; when did the tall wooden door flash a few small figures in the crack of the door? No one knows.

Knowing that the lunch break was over, we had a new afternoon when we sat up from our desks and benches with sleepy eyes open. At first I didn't notice the difference, and it was almost like that at noon in the summer. The children who had gone with them did not return too late, and they were already sitting in their respective seats before the class bell rang, but they were a little flustered. Their panic naturally could not escape the teacher's sharp eyes - of course, the most important thing was that he did not come back, and since then he has not returned, and he cannot come back!

When the noon cry for help sounded, we were all still in our sweet dreams, and we couldn't see the waving arms and sinking figures in the water. The companions who had secretly gone to play with the water stood on the shore, waving their arms, hoarse, but powerless, they had not yet learned to save people in the water, they had not even learned how to play with water better, they were only because of their own momentary impulses, and their ignorance of nature that had only been in contact with nature for only a few short years, the indispensable water every day, the gentle appearance made people ignore its terrible side, and easily and cruelly took away his young life.

His seat was vacant from then on, and he was forever stopped at that age, in that class.

To this day, when I occasionally close my eyes and meditate, I can still see him, just in front of the classroom door, or at noon, the noise of cicadas many years ago has long disappeared, the faint snoring of children on lunch breaks cannot be heard, and the world is as quiet as a painting. He stood in front of the classroom door waving at me, dressed in a green military uniform, exactly the same as I had back then (most of the boys of that era had it). There was no belt outside the military uniform, and his other hand was hanging down, lightly draped over his pocket, which was bulging. I know what's in it, and he loves it as much as I do...

It was the toy gun that my father had borrowed from me a few days before his accident.