Meiwen admires | acacia tree

When I was ten years old, I won first in an essay contest. My mother was still young at the time and was anxious to tell me about herself, that her compositions were even better when she was a child, and that the teacher did not even believe that such a good article would be written by her. The teacher came to the house and asked if the adults in the family had helped. I was probably not yet ten years old. I listened with disappointment and deliberately laughed: "Possibly? What is it that may not be enough? She explained. I pretended not to pay any attention to her words at all, and played ping-pong balls against the wall, making her angry enough. But I admit that she is smart, that she is the best-looking woman in the world. She was making herself a dress with white flowers on a blue background.

At twenty years old, my legs were crippled. In addition to painting Easter eggs, I thought I should do something else, changed my mind a few times, and finally wanted to learn to write. My mother was not young at that time, and for the sake of my legs, she began to have gray hair on her head. The hospital has made it clear that there is no way to treat my condition at this time. My mother's full mind was still on treating me, looking for doctors everywhere, inquiring about folk remedies, and spending a lot of money. She always found some strange medicine for me to eat, let me drink, or wash, compress, smoke, moxibustion. "Don't waste your time! It doesn't work at all! "I said, I was only thinking about writing novels, as if that thing could save the crippled man from his predicament." Try again, how do you know it will be useless without trying? Every time, she said, she held out hope reverently. However, for my legs, as many times as I hoped, I was disappointed, and the last time, my crotch was burned. The doctor at the hospital said it was too much for paralyzed patients. That's pretty much the worst thing to do. I wasn't too scared, I thought it was better to die, and it was painful to die. My mother panicked for several months, guarding me day and night, and as soon as she changed her medicine, she said, "How can it be hot?" I'm still paying attention! "Fortunately, the wound is getting better, otherwise she would have gone crazy."

Later she found out I was writing a novel. She said to me, "Then write well." "I heard that she was finally desperate to heal my leg." When I was younger, I also liked literature the most. She said. When you were about the same age now, I thought about writing," she said. "Didn't you get the first essay when you were a kid?" She reminded me. We both tried our best to forget my legs. She went everywhere to borrow books from me, pushed me to the movies against the rain or snow, and held out hopes as she used to find me a doctor and inquire about folk remedies.

At the age of thirty, my first novel was published. My mother is no longer alive, and a few years later, another of my novels has won an award, and my mother has been away from me for seven full years.

After winning the award, there were many reporters who came to the door to interview, and everyone was kind and kind, thinking that I was not easy. But I only prepared a set of words, and I felt upset when I said it. I shook the car and ducked out, sitting in the quiet woods of the small park, thinking: Why did God call my mother back early? Confused, I heard the answer: "Her heart is too bitter." God saw that she could not stand it and called her back. My heart took a little comfort, I opened my eyes and saw the wind blowing through the woods.

I shook my car out of there and wandered the streets, not wanting to go home.

After my mother died, we moved. I rarely went to the little courtyard where my mother lived. The courtyard is at the end of a large courtyard, and I occasionally shake the car to the courtyard to sit down, but I do not want to go to the small courtyard there, and I push that it is inconvenient for the hand-cranked car to enter. The old ladies in the courtyard still regard me as a child and grandchild, especially thinking that I have no mother, but they don't say anything, just gossip, blame me for not going often. I sat in the middle of the yard, drinking the tea of the owner and eating the melon of the west family. One year, people finally mentioned their mother again: "Go to the small courtyard to see, the acacia tree planted by your mother has blossomed this year!" "My heart was shaking, but I still pushed that it was too difficult for the hand-cranked car to get in and out. Everyone stopped talking, busy with something else, talking about the house where we used to live now lives in a small family, the woman has just given birth to a son, the child does not cry or make trouble, just staring at the shadows of the trees on the window.

I didn't expect the tree to be alive. That year, my mother went to the Labor Bureau to find me a job, and when she came back, she dug up a freshly unearthed "mimosa" on the side of the road, thinking it was a mimosa, planted in a pot, and it turned out to be an acacia tree. My mother had always liked those things, but her mind was all elsewhere. The next year the acacia tree did not sprout, and the mother sighed once, and was reluctant to throw it away, still letting it grow in the tile pot. In the third year, the acacia tree grew leaves again and flourished. The mother was happy for many days, thinking that it was a good sign, and often went to serve it, and did not dare to be careless. Another year later, she removed the acacia tree from the pot and planted it on the ground in front of the window, sometimes nagging, not knowing that the tree would not bloom until several years. Another year later, we moved. The grief made us all forget the little tree.

Instead of wandering the streets, I thought, let's go and see the tree. I also want to look at the room where my mother lived again. I always remembered that there was a child who had just come into the world, who did not cry or make trouble, and stared at the shadows of the trees. Is it the shadow of the acacia tree? There was only that tree in the courtyard.

The old ladies in the courtyard still welcomed me so much, pouring tea in the east house and lighting cigarettes in the west house and delivering them to me. Everyone doesn't know about my award, maybe they know, but they don't think it's important; Still all asked about my legs and asked if I had a formal job. This time, it is really impossible to shake the car into the small courtyard, the small kitchen in front of the house is expanded, and the aisle is so narrow that a person pushing a bicycle in and out has to be sideways. I asked about the acacia tree. Everyone said that every year it blossomed and grew to the height of the house. With that said, I can't see it anymore. If I ask someone to look at me behind my back, it's not impossible. I regret not rocking my car in the first two years.

I walked slowly down the street with my car in no hurry. Sometimes people just want to be alone for a while. Sadness also becomes enjoyment.

One day when the child grows up, he will think of his childhood, he will think of the shadows of the trees that are shaking, he will think of his own mother, and he will run to see the tree. But he wouldn't know who planted the tree and how.

Author: Shi Tiesheng

Peking Man. Famous novelist, essayist. Since 1986, he has been a contract producer of the Beijing Writers Association, and is now the vice chairman of the Beijing Writers Association, the writer-in-residence, a member of the Fifth, Sixth and Seventh National Committees of the China Writers Association, the vice chairman of the China Disabled Writers Association, and the title of a first-class writer. Over the years, he fought tenaciously against the disease and created a large number of excellent and widely known literary works on his sickbed. His major works include the short and medium story collection "My Distant Qingping Bay", "Sunday", "Stage Effect", "Fate Like Strings", etc., and the novel "Retreat Notes".