□ Dai Qingsong
The balls of thread were rolling, hurrying, hurrying again. Like a furry toy dog, walking and stopping, stopping and falling, running left for a while, turning to the right for a while, and spinning around in place for a while, always refusing to rest, like the beautiful woman who played with it.
It was held by a woolen thread as beautiful as a thread, and the wool pulled slowly and frequently, like a silent stream, flowing slowly toward the white, slender and dexterous hands.
It obediently and mysteriously flowed to the woman's fingers, and then huddled, waiting for the two slender, smooth and shiny metal needles manipulated by her hands to dispatch. The tip of the needle carries the craftsmanship of the weaver, and as the tip of the needle hooks and pulls the wool with each other, the thread gradually becomes smaller and smaller, and the petite and exquisite sweater sleeves, collars, and flowers blooming on the chest are formed one by one. These semi-finished objects are like fields in autumn, red sorghum ears, green peanuts and corn, smiling pink apples, purple bunches of grapes... Outline a thousand purples and thousands of reds. She uses a bright velvet line to wear left and right, the edges and corners are fused, and the precise matching, a pleasing, clean and sacred, beautiful and comfortable boutique sweater will jump to the eye. The faint red, the plain gray, the clean white, the bright pink, is so beautiful.
She put the best works of hard work and love on my body over and over again, and then looked at it carefully, looking left and right, constantly tugging on the sleeves, pulling the collar, and covering the back, while admiring the masterpiece, always loving to keep the shining eyes on the child's face. That gaze was full of hope and comfort, and I loved to see her glowing eyes under her eyebrows, watery, crystal clear, flashing with intelligence and affection, and pregnant with waves of love. I love to see her constantly changing her posture and angle to admire my appearance, light waist, white and rosy smiling face, deeply engraved in my heart. She uses the perception of love to slowly extend her slender and warm fingers into the neckline, cuffs, and waist, to feel the elasticity, to explore the appropriateness, to search for flaws and incongruities, to pour perfection and admiration. She measured the length of the child's arms, shoulder width, neck and waist over and over again, lest a little grievance haunt the baby.
The feeling of maternal love is deeply imprinted. Crossing the crest of memory, I met my mother from the time she worked tirelessly to knit sweaters for me.
The sweater carries the countless hardships and efforts of the mother. Under the beating lights, she played the piano with crickets, lost the precipitate of love from sleep; in between classes, she interpreted the fun on the knitting needle and concentrated on the needle tip of the head kissing; those hard days, life was difficult, the wool was in short supply, the mother always patched together left and right, dismantled the old and filled the gaps, sometimes even removed her own sweater to get the wool, and then the magician put the wool of different thicknesses, colors, and different threads into a color coordination, symmetry and charm, delicate texture, unique fitting sweater, Depict the wheel gallery of love.
Children are naughty, teenagers are crazy, a little careless, will break the wool in the hectic leisure, grind into small holes, stained with dirt, the mother often in the child's deep sleep, with love patience and tolerance to scrub dirty places, so that the broken line into a bright flashing "rainbow", the small hole repaired the icing on the cake, outline the glittering little sun, so that the sweater is bright and colorful every day. Slowly understanding things, I began to understand my mother's hard work, restraint and self-discipline, closed the shackles, dedicated to the neatness and beauty of the sweater, to the maximum shrinking of the naughty impulse of the teenager, as far as possible to make its elegant appearance become long.
While my mother was knitting the sweater, she was weaving the blueprint of my life. The sweater accompanied me through my early childhood, elementary school, junior high school, high school, and in that golden autumn of youth, I put it on to bid farewell to my mother and go to the far away to find the future. Every time I make progress, it is like a fiery flame in my heart urging me to forge ahead and advance to the highest.
Far away from the land of Sangzi, my mother waved her thoughts in her hand and often asked me in letters at home whether I had grown tall and how much I weighed. When I return home, I will happily hold out a decent and comfortable sweater, let me see it, try it on and show it on in her proud and warm smile. Those past moments became eternal memories in my life.
The sweater condenses the mother's yin and yin feelings, accompanies me to grow up, forge ahead, with it, I can always hear my mother's advice, as if there is an invisible silk thread connecting the heart of mother and child. With it, there is the vastness and brightness of the sky, there is the warmth of spring and autumn, there is the sunset that dyes half of the sky red, there are songs and swallows, birds and flowers...
Years have no home. Now, my mother is old, weak, slow-moving, old-eyed, and can no longer knit sweaters for me, but the light of her mother's love will always shine in my heart. I want to warm her with love in return.