Dong Guobin
Niang said that niang was weak and small, and niang's small pot of charcoal was extremely weak. The mother also said, the mother can not give you anything, more can not warm the whole winter of your life, the mother is a short tree that can not go out of the house, weak and small I did not speak, just silently whispered in my heart, I will hold the mother's hand all the way to the end in my life, and experience wind and rain under the mother's low tree.
My father worked hard far away, and in my young soul, only my mother was my dependent.
When I was in elementary school, I was in town to study, and I was slapped for some reason by a matter that had nothing to do with me. When my classmate slapped me, my eyes went straight to the gold. When I was young, I never fought with anyone else, and I really encountered a must-have, and I was powerless to fight back with others. The teacher saw me crying bitterly, reprimanded the tough classmate, and sent a letter to my mother.
The mother came, grabbed a handful of candy from her pocket, and gave it to the boy who hit me, and the mother's two fingers only pinched a piece of candy and stuffed it into the palm of my hand. The classmate who was still very domineering the day before, stretched out his hands and tightly hugged his mother, and signaled to her with tears in his eyes, he was wrong, he misunderstood me, and he was begging for her forgiveness and tolerance.
The matter passed like this, and the mother did not scold the boy who slapped me, but fiercely exported the evil gas for me, but instead took the candy to eat for him. There was nothing else in the mother's heart, only a tender feeling.
When I was a university outside, I often stayed up late to study hard, and unconsciously found that my eyesight was declining, so I sent a letter to my mother who was farming in the farmland, saying that I would send some money to buy a pair of glasses.
On a clear day, there were a few cirrus clouds floating in the tile blue sky, the sky was pure blue, and the cirrus clouds were thoroughly white. The students are in class, the teacher is speaking carefully, and the students are listening carefully. No one expected that a rural aunt would push the door in, stand in the doorway in a daze, and her eyes kept sweeping around the classroom. She was wearing a crumpled coarse blue blouse, carrying a fish scale bag in her hand, and an anxious look hanging from her face. She was none other than my peasant mother.
In the dormitory, the mother took me over and asked eagerly: "Child, let the mother see, what is the eye?" "I was shocked at first, and immediately realized that my mother, who had never been out of the house, mistakenly thought that there was a big problem with my eyes, put down the farm work in my hand, and traveled thousands of miles to rush from my hometown." So I said to my mother word by word: "It is myopia, and many of my classmates are wearing glasses." When the mother learned that my eyes were not in trouble, she breathed a long sigh of relief and smiled and took out some dates and persimmons for me.
I regret that I didn't make it clear in the letter and let my mother rush to the school. Thinking about this incident has always been a warm sadness in my heart, and once again let me see the softness of the depths of my mother's soul, as well as a small pot of charcoal fire and a short tree full of branches and leaves.
Time flies so fast, from elementary school to middle school, to college, to enter the workplace, looking back, time is a rushing train, but time has not aged at all. As usual, the mother still strolled in the immortal time, as usual, she still cut firewood and planted land in her hometown, mowed grass for the pigs in the family circle to the foot of the mountain, and lived an ordinary and simple life, and the mother was still a short tree that could not walk out of the house.
I caught the train back to my hometown, and my mother did not know how long she had been standing at the door. When she finally saw me coming, the mother, who was standing in the wind, hurried over and took my hand. My mother is still the mother I always loved when I was a child, and my mother's hand is still like a basin of warm charcoal fire when I was a child. My cold hand was warm, but the cold wind hit her full of white hair. Without taking a little more rest, I led my mother toward the town. There was already a slightly larger department store in town, and I sold my mother thickened cotton clothes and other items that were enough for her to overwinter. I paid for it and walked out with a big bag and a small bag, and my mother waited at the cashier counter to find change. When I came out of the supermarket, the mother did not go back, the mother signaled me to wait a while, wait a little longer, and after half an hour, the mother walked into the supermarket. The next day, I met the supermarket cashier in the town, and her words made me understand that the weak woman buried in her heart was always the same tenderness. The young cashier clasped his mother's hand and said movingly: "It is not easy to find a job now, if the eldest lady returned the extra 50 yuan in front of the supermarket owner yesterday, I will be dismissed, and I will definitely pay attention to it in the future." ”
The mother is weak, only a weak pot of charcoal, the mother has no ability, can not let my life go smoothly, but the mother's soul has a warm and tender feeling. I will walk along the mother's walk, make a low tree like the mother, and live like a mother's tenderness.