On Friday afternoon, I went to the kindergarten to pick up my son. On the way home, the four-year-old kept yelling in his mouth that he wanted to give me a gift. I thought he was just talking casually and didn't take it seriously. Unexpectedly, as soon as he entered the house, he couldn't wait to take his bag off his shoulder and rummage through it. That serious and anxious look made people a little unbearable.
After a while, he took out a piece of paper from his bag and walked over excitedly: "Mom, here you go." I took a look at it, and it was a light pink drawing paper. It depicts a large leafy tree, and among the dense green foliage, several gray-brown birds are eagerly awaiting. The yellow little mouth was slightly open, as if calling for a mother who was out foraging. And in the distant sky above the tree, a large bird with plump wings is spreading its wings in the direction of the tree. In the upper left corner of the drawing, a line is written crookedly in pencil: Mom, I love you! Happy Mother's Day!
Looking at this special gift in front of me, a warm current surged in my heart, and my eyes instantly moistened. All this was seen by the son on the side, and his face was full of doubts: "Mom, what's wrong, is it that I don't draw well, you don't like it?" I gently scratched his little nose with my finger: "How come, it's so well drawn." Mom loved it. When my son heard me say this, he jumped happily and went to play with toys.
Looking at the children playing happily in front of him, a familiar figure can't help but emerge in front of him. Gray hair, vicissitudes of face, gentle and kind eyes, clean and simple clothes. She is my mother, my peasant mother who has planted her lifelong dream on the yellow earth. In the face of my four-year-old son's gift, I feel guilty about my mother. I should thank my son's teacher for teaching him to draw such a picture that touches the heart and has a profound meaning. It reminds me of my own mother. That little bird with its mouth open waiting to be fed, isn't that us back then? Isn't the hardworking big bird foraging everywhere a mother who is struggling to raise her children?
My son's paintings suddenly brought my thoughts back to those soft times in the past. For us, my mother trekked alone in the long dark nights. For us, my mother used to stagger alone on a dirt path. For us, my mother wore miserable winds and bitter rains. For us, my mother turned white and weakened. Under our mother's meticulous care and care, we grew up day by day. But the vast maternal love has not changed with the passage of time. The mother's love, which is not afraid of the heat and the cold, is like a trickle of clear streams, which has been nourishing and washing our hearts for many years.
I remember clearly that after my father's early death, my mother took our siblings on a difficult journey. The people in the village took pity on her and persuaded her mother many times that sooner or later her daughter would be someone else's person, so let's find a mother-in-law for her eldest daughter (me) as soon as possible. If you can meet a diligent son-in-law, there are only many helpers, and you don't have to work so hard. My mother looked at me, who was only sixteen years old, with tears in her eyes, and politely declined. She silently endured the hardships of life, the misery of fate. At that time, when farming, whenever you encountered farm work, you had to carry it on your shoulders. At harvest time, my mother led me and my younger siblings to carry the ripe crops home in small bundles. At that time, we lived like a busy group of little ants. Others can pick up bundles of wheat at one time, and my sister and I have to share them several times to carry them home. Every time we were farming, the 100-kilogram bag of fertilizer had to be carried step by step from the supply and marketing cooperatives to our home with my mother and I using flat stretchers and hemp rope. Although the journey was not far, when I returned home, my clothes were already soaked.
My mother told me years later that every time I carried fertilizer, she would quietly move it to her while I wasn't paying attention. Say that I was a child at that time and couldn't get tired. I am an adult, it doesn't matter if I am tired. Hearing my mother's words, I still have tears in my eyes many years later.
I once saw pictures of my mother when she was young in an old book with a shoe pattern between them. A floral blouse with two shoulder-length braids. Resolute gaze, quiet and gentle. I later learned that it was her junior high school graduation photo. The years are relentless, and at the snap of a finger, decades pass by. The once young mother has long been turned into a kind old man with good intentions by the years. Along the way, the grind of life, do you remember the time? The bitterness of fate, can the years know? Years later, looking back on those difficult days, my mother's sorrow and helplessness will still touch the bottom of my heart, deep pain.
Time flies, winter turns to spring. The bitterness of the past, the torment of the past, quietly passed in the time like water. When the unforgettable hardship came, my mother overcame our bravery. When the storm hit, my mother held up the clear sky for us. In the twilight, my mother lit the lamp for us. From stumbling to stride, from babbling to being able to speak well, our growth and progress bit by bit have condensed how much effort of our mother and how much sweat we have gathered. When we grow up under the protection of our mother's love, our mother is getting older and older in the vicissitudes of time.
When he was young, he also willfully broke his mother's heart. As I grew older, I remembered my mother's fearlessness and calmness, strength and indomitability in the face of bad luck, and I had deep respect in my heart. Those leisurely past memories will pass through the depths of my mind for countless sleepless nights. My mother's ordinary and small but tenacious spiritual qualities have always inspired and spurred me on. It makes me seriously trek on the road of life and move forward with optimism. In the face of difficulties, do not complain, do not be discouraged.
When I was young, I didn't know how to cherish the days with my mother. I always feel that the days of gathering together will be high and long. But now, looking at the years passing by like a gallop, the aging mother, my heart is inexplicably panicked. "If you don't know the price of firewood and rice, if you don't raise children, you don't know your parents' grace", when you can feel your mother's hard work and difficulty, you have to drift and work hard for your own life. Now, in my tearful eyes, I often see myself in the depths of time, helpless mother. I know that during that leisurely time, I still knelt beside my mother, listening to her warm nagging, soft rebuke. The happiness that was whispered was as plain as water, clear the time, and warmed the eyes.
I really don't know, this flower-filled May, that fragrance should belong to the mother? Those flowers, which are elegant, or strong, or dignified, or coquettish, can bring out the deep affection in my heart like the sea. My peasant mother, who belongs to the village. Her footprints are all over the fields and mountain streams of her hometown. My peasant mother, too, belongs to the earth. Her sweat, sliding down the thick loess, watered the flowers and grew fruitful fruits. You see, the simple pea blossoms, the rows of pure potato flowers, and the bunches of elegant acacia flowers are blooming. Those flowers belong to the mother.
I really don't know, this sunny May, that Hong Qingsha should belong to the mother? Those clouds are light and windy, clear and lofty memories, how can they hide their mother's grace like a mountain and love like the sea. This green mother's love, like a bright sun, soothes my barren soul. Like a clear moonlight, pouring out my sleepless night sky. Give me invisible strength, give me endless courage, let me run and wander in the vast world.
I really don't know what kind of sincerity should be used to pick peace, health, and thoughts for my mother. I really don't know what kind of piety should be used to describe auspiciousness, imitate wishes, and write blessings for my mother.
On the field, the simple flowers that bloom everywhere must be the "carnations" given to mothers by the years. Otherwise, how could it be so rich and elegant...