To the mother| the mother's eyes

Text/Su Limin (Hebei)

In April, in the quiet afternoon, the WeChat prompt of the mobile phone rang, and it was Jiangnan's sister who asked me if I had written an article for my mother's eyes. I am ashamed that although there are many words about my mother, I really haven't deliberately written about my mother's eyes. Xu was guilty, and I promised to write one immediately.

Speaking of my mother's eyes, I really didn't look at them well, but the eyes of a classmate in high school reminded me of my mother's eyes. The classmate was very spicy, his eyes were like black beans, and he came up with a good idea as soon as he turned around. In the high school era when nostalgia quietly breeds, if I miss home, I talk to that classmate, and I feel that I have returned to my hometown, and I feel that I have felt my mother's face.

Writing this, I secretly took out a picture of my mother and looked at it. This clear remake was taken by my mother when she was young, and it was remade by my lover who went to Shijiazhuang when my mother's birthday came that year, and gave it to my mother as a birthday gift, and my mother was very happy and hung it on the wall. One Spring Festival we took our son to his mother's house, and my son followed his mother to kindergarten, and his introverted personality was much more lively in his mother's teaching, but he still didn't like to talk. When the mother saw my son sitting silently in a corner, she encouraged him in particular: "Tan'er, you talk, don't be afraid, the more people you have to speak." My son looked around and tried to find a topic to talk about, and when he saw the picture of my mother on the wall, he asked, "Is that Cong Cong's sister?" We all laughed, and my mother said that was when I was younger. Now that I think about it, my mother's eyes must be beautiful, because the eyes of my niece Congcong are often praised, and if you simply use sentences such as long eyelashes to describe it, it seems very shallow, and it is really beautiful without words.

None of the photos of her mother when she was young were smiling, her eyes were naturally not smiling, very depressed, the corners of her eyes were slightly raised, the short hair of qi er wore a bow, lively and securely reflected the white face, a faint bangs covered half of the eyebrows, which was a romantic temperament that the years could not take away. Now staring at the few photos, my mother's eyes were still silent, but the dark eyes looked directly at people's hearts. I looked at my mother and felt like I was listening to the teachings of the next life.

The mother is an observant and compassionate person, she feeds cats, and she likes to hold cats in her arms in the sun. She told us that the cat's eye is a clock with a needle in it, and the position of the hour hand is different at different hours of the day. Mothers also like to judge people's qualities from the eyebrows, and the mother said that people's kindness is written on the face and will overflow from the eyes.

My mother rarely looks in the mirror, and every year on the third day of the first lunar month, she will take a good look in the mirror. On the third day of the first lunar month, we went to my grandmother's house, and we waited for my mother at the door with a steamed bun basket early, but my mother could not go out for a long time. She brushed her hair in front of the mirror, saying that time had passed too quickly, and that her hair was a few more strands white.

My mother's eyes were not as dark as when I was young after middle age, and the impression was somewhat yellow, and I did not examine my mother's eyes properly, and I almost never felt my mother's presence visually. When I came home from school, I shouted "mother", and my mother answered even if I saw my mother. In the afterglow, the figure of the mother is busy, and what remains in the memory is the mother's clothes. In May of the last time my mother left, we went out to see the scenery, and my mother wore a checkered shirt and sneakers that her niece did not wear, and she was reluctant to throw them and stomped on her feet.

When her mother was wronged, her eyes were red, and at that time she rarely admitted that she had shed tears, mostly when she placed herself in the kitchen to burn the fire, if asked, she said that the fireworks were blinding, and she pulled out the corner of her clothes to wipe her eyes while talking. When my grandmother died, my mother's eyes were swollen like peaches, and she buried my grandmother, and the night my mother came home, she sat on the kangtou, and I lay in the bed and didn't know how to comfort my mother, and my mother only said: I don't have a mother!

In the days that followed, my mother had dry eyes and sparse eyebrows.

I've only seen my mother cry once, and my mother was determined to work in the production team for a year to see if she could share a red at the end of the year. At that time, picking cotton was to be searched, afraid that women would steal cotton from home, but not everyone searched, and it was the people in charge of the production team who thought that who stole cotton would search for whom. Her mother never stole anything, and she lived frugally. When I returned to the wheat field that day, the woman in charge saw that my mother's waist was bulging, and she concluded that cotton was stuffed in her waist and asked my mother to pull it out, and her mother said no, and her eyes were full of prayers. The more this happened, the more the woman concluded that her mother was a cotton thief, and she did not let her mother go, no way, the mother cried and took out a lump of bloody toilet paper from her waist, and it was the mother who went to work with a menstrual holiday that day.

The aggrieved mother came home crying all the time. In my father's position as the secretary of the village party committee, my mother could not have worked, but she did not. She cried because others didn't understand her, because her father worked hard for the village day by day, but there were still people who wanted to see my family's jokes. That day my sister was angry and went to the woman to reason with me, but I was too small and weak to dare to go. Many years later, the woman's daughter went to the factory to borrow my college entrance examination results, and I actually accompanied her daughter to the county town to help her daughter win the job in the factory. I remember that when I was disguised as her daughter for a physical examination, she said on the side that I was too thin and should let my mother make me fish to eat. At that time, I saw her bulging fish-like selfish eyes, filled with dirty, and regretted helping her. When I came back, my mother did not rebuke me, and I also saw the kindness and tolerance in my mother's eyes.

The last time I felt my mother's eyes was in the emergency room, and my mother's eyes were tightly closed, like the horizontal line after the ELECTROCardi had been stationary. The vest she wore was the same old vest that village women used to wear in the 1980s. There was a water cup next to the bed, and the water cup contained tea leaves and rock sugar, and I later learned that when my mother went out that day, my father carried a water cup to send my mother out, and the tea and rock sugar were brewed in the cup by my father himself. I helped my mother put on her birthday coat, and whispered the glass slag on her back and kept shouting, "Is this rock candy?" "No one answered me, my water fingers oozing blood. I wanted my mother to open her eyes to me again, but she didn't have the strength to open her eyes anymore.

I can't write about my mother's eyes, just as I can't remember what my mother's milk tasted like, and having a mother in my life has always been taken for granted, and I didn't know that I didn't cherish it until I lost it. In times of failure, in times of sadness, in the darkness, my mother's eyes always give me encouragement. My mother's eyes could not speak, but she treasured all the love that could not be expressed in language, and she could not give me the teachings before she died, and she has always given me after her death.

About the author: Su Limin, screen name: Xiao Chen. He is a member of the China Financial Writers Association, a member of the Hebei Writers Association, and a member of the Chinese Prose Literature Association, and has produced seventeen works.

Submission email: [email protected]

One Point No. Scroll Wenyuan