Skin bag-5 (there is a commissary over there)

My mother and I couldn't say a word, sitting in the oily gas station, laughing happily, and then she remembered that she almost failed to cook for my father on time, and dragged me all the way home.

Although knowing that it is not the fault of the typhoon at all. The end is predestined, many things in life, should come, not in this form, will be in that form. But simply blaming things on something we can't do anything about will allow our hearts to comfort ourselves a little bit, so I'm still willing to curse that typhoon.

There are many typhoons in southern Fujian, which is not a novelty. Usually every time the typhoon alarm, everyone is busy tinkering, fixing things that can be fixed, filling in the loopholes, and then closing the doors and windows, for a night, listening to the giant beast constantly playing in front of your roof and window, listening to it completely wrap you up with its breath, but it will not hurt you for half a minute. As long as you don't open the door, everything seems to have nothing to do with you. It is like a 4D stereoscopic movie that God staged for the people of southern Fujian several times a year.

I am an active person, so when I was a child, I was especially willing to play with typhoons. At that time, the wind was clean and the rain was clean, unlike today, if you are contaminated with a little rain, you have to be afraid of chemical pollution. When you hear the typhoon coming, open the door, shout, rush out, let the wind and rain surround you, and then run home, wet to meet your mother's scolding.

The typhoon was in the color of my sadness until that year.

From summer to autumn, my father began to perceive that something that should have happened did not happen: the left arm was still habitually curled up in front of the chest, the left leg was still only in control of the knee joint, and even, to his panic, the toes and fingers lost their senses one by one. My sister liked to cut his nails when he was sleeping, and when he accidentally cut the flesh, the blood flowed out, and my sister was so frightened that she looked for medicine and cloth to bandage him, and he still fell asleep without feeling it. It was only when I woke up and saw the inexplicable gauze on my feet that I stared silly in a daze.

I could see that the frustration grew from the subtle points, and finally grew into an army, and part of it captured him. But he pretended not to know. We also pretended not to know.

He was already aware. This unpunctured sadness, like a pus wound, continues to accumulate and swell, slowly, uncontrollably, and sadness sometimes erupts——

He was more demanding on time. He asked his mother to hang a big clock in the room and in the hall. Every day when he woke up, he shouted for his mother to help him up, and then he began to stare at the clock, constantly urging, it should have been fifteen minutes to get dressed, it should have been the twentieth minute to help him wash up, it should have been the thirtieth minute to help him go downstairs, it should have been ready within fifty minutes, and fed him breakfast, it should have been fifty-five minutes to take him to the toilet again, it should have been eight o'clock on time to step out of the door... But why is it a minute slower here and two minutes longer there.

He would suddenly sweep the things on the table, or hit the ground with a crutch and keep growling: "Are you trying to hurt me?" Are you trying to hurt me? ”

It was as if it was precisely every minute that his mother was too busy to keep up, and he could not complete the mobilization of his other half of his body as scheduled.

The first typhoon of autumn is coming. The afternoon before, my mother and I had inspected the whole house. It was the first typhoon the family had to go through after my father fell ill, the biggest in years, according to the weather forecast, and it landed precisely from our town.

The TV station broadcast the news that the leaders of the Ministry of Civil Affairs had come to garrison the front line, and the CCTV reporters also regretted that the wind had not yet blown listlessly. He may be looking forward to the fact that in the storm, he will be blown unsteadily by the wind, need to hold on to a certain tree, and then hysterically shout the words reported by this reporter on the spot.

He'll get his wish. Typhoons are like this, there is no sound before they come, and when they arrive, they are overwhelming.

First there was a moment of silence, then the wind began to swirl, wrapped in dust, as if dancing, and then, suddenly, the storm was coming at one o'clock in the afternoon, like a rain of bullets and bullets, roaring in. I saw that the ground on the road had been finely smashed into small holes, and the reporter on the TV also began to stand in the wind and roar and report as he wished.

My mother closed the store early and went home, and no one would have gone out on a typhoon day. Dad also returned from his morning workouts as scheduled. I got up to close the door, but my father stopped me, why did I close the door?

On typhoon days, it will be full of water if you don't close the door.

Can't close, I'll have to go out later.

What door to go out on a typhoon day?

I'm going to exercise.

What to do on a typhoon day?

Don't hurt me, I'm going to exercise.

Just take a day off.

"Don't hurt me."

My father didn't even eat, and he was going to move outside the door with his crutches.

I was so angry that I wanted to grab my crutches, so he picked them up and hit me. Hit on the arm, immediately cyan one. Mother hurried up to close the door. The father roared and moved step by step to the door, his right hand to hold the crutch to maintain his balance, and the paralyzed left hand tried to open the door, but it could not be opened.

He began to knock on the door with his crutches, crying and scolding: "You want to hurt me, you want to hurt me, you don't want me to be good, you don't want me to be good." ”

The shouting sound was as sharp as the noise produced by a broken tractor desperately starting. The neighbor began to have a probe and asked through the window what was wrong.

I was angry, went to the door, opened the door, you go, you go, no one stopped you.

My father did not look at me, and used his crutches to probe the point of his foot first, carefully moving his bulky body. As soon as his body went out, the wind wrapped itself in a torrential rain, sweeping him like a leaf, sweeping him directly to the other side of the road.

He lay on the ground, struggling to get up. I rushed forward to lift him up, and he was obviously still angry and pushed me away. Continued to be alone in that struggle, struggling, and finally slumped in that place.

The mother walked silently behind him, pressed her body against his left side, and he slowly stood up. His mother wanted to lead him into the house, but he pushed him away domineeringly and continued to walk forward.

The wind and rain overwhelmed the earth. His body trembled and trembled, like a bird in the rain, small and powerless. The neighbors also came out, and everyone shouted for him to go home. As if he hadn't heard, he moved on.

Moving to the corner of the previous house, a gust of wind struck and he fell again.

The neighbor wanted to help him, and he pushed it away. He gave up and stood up, and lay on the ground, like a lizard, with his hands and feet moving forward...

Eventually he was completely exhausted, so he was helped by a neighbor and carried him home. However, after resting until four o'clock, he took his own crutches and rushed to the door.

On that day, he tossed and turned like this three times.

The next day, the typhoon was still there, and he didn't want to go out or talk, and he didn't even want to get out of bed. Lying on the bed, dazed.

There was no sound, but something in his heart was indeed completely broken. The voice was inaudible, but it was truly pervasive. And with a taste, salty, floating in the house, like the steam of seawater.

He lay on the bed as if he had been born there.

After a few days without saying a word, he finally called me to bed and said, Can you drive me to the beach on a motorcycle?

That afternoon, the whole family finally carried him to the motorcycle, and tied him with a piece of cloth with me, who was in charge of driving the motorcycle.

The autumn sky is as white as salt. The sea is therefore particularly beautiful. As I slowly drove along the embankment, I saw children roasting sweet potatoes there, a few teenagers finishing drinking and smashing bottles, and fishermen with baskets and hoes about to go to sea.

Father never spoke. I tried to pick up a topic. I asked, didn't you hear that your brother was the most cattle gang in this sea? The people in that boat are waving at us, is it your old little brother?

He was as quiet in the back as a plant, as if he had never existed.

When he got home, he opened his mouth: "Okay, I'm worried." ”

I knew, he thought, that he could die.

The disease completely crushed him. He was like a prisoner of war waiting to be pulled to the execution ground at any moment, and had accepted the fate that was about to be revealed.

This despair in turn freed him.

He no longer pretended to be strong, and would suddenly cry at his immobile arm; he was no longer willing to abide by any rules, sitting in the doorway every day, scolding at the sight of whoever passed by, the neighbor's puppy ran around him, he was upset and beat him, which child blocked his way slowly moving, he also unceremoniously stabbed him with a crutch. He even took off the appearance that his father's identity should have, and began to play tricks, lose his temper at will, and spoil like a child.

Those afternoons, every time I came home from school, I could often see a group of elderly villagers sitting at the door, gathered around him, listening to him tell some slightly exaggerated stories, and wiping away tears. Or maybe there are different neighbors who come to the door and complain to the mother and me, and the father quarrels with his children or puppies.

The image of the father completely collapsed. My sister and I constantly adjusted their titles, from "father" all the way to the nickname Ah Yuan, and even later, he was juxtaposed with my newborn niece, nicknamed Little Grain Boy (Minnan language called petite, round, cute), and his family called him Big Grain Boy.

He was even happy to be called that. Continue to cry in those old villages and quarrel with the neighbor's puppies.

However, death has been delayed.

In anticipation of death, he spoke deliberately as if he were a last word. He would say: I am gone, you yourself choose your wife to pay attention; he will say: I must be cremated, remember wherever you go, take me wherever you go. He thought about it for half a day several times: It's all right, I'm not here, the house is still there.

I have always regarded his words as a childish snide to the god of illness and death, but they still sting me. In particular, the phrase "I'm not here, I'm still at home" will make me angry enough to lose my temper with him.

You are not allowed to say that. I'll kill him loudly.

I'm telling the truth.

Anyway, you are not allowed to say it later.

He was silent. After a while, anyone whoever passed by, whether the person cared or not, would say to the man, "I just told my son that I am no longer here, and that my home will still be there, and he has lost his temper with me. ”

Then turn around to see if I'm angry enough to run to him.

At first, I was really not used to this father who degenerated into a child, let alone his identity, what a strange child, who could not stop talking about the life and death that stung me. But I also know that it's the best way he can live.

Although death had not yet come, he had enjoyed this way of life more and more. Slowly, the death in his mouth seemed to be no longer death, but an old friend he had not expected. He began to forget what he had decided to leave, occasionally saying, "Son, will you put them in your hometown when you have children?" Son, grandson's name won't let me take it? ”

I would joke and ask, "What, not dead?" ”

"Die!" He realized, "Or hurry up and die." Then he smiled and crooked his mouth, and when he was not careful, saliva flowed down the left mouth of the hemiplegic.

This strange medical knowledge was only known to me after my father fell ill: in the winter, it is cold, and people's blood vessels will contract. Elderly people are therefore easily tired, and for strokers like their fathers, blood vessel contraction means that hemiplegia is exacerbated.

Last winter he had become increasingly inconvenient to walk, and several times he could not take a step on his left foot and fell directly to the ground. He broke his head and bled, and his whole body was bruised. Finally, as the head of the family, I ordered him to stay at home this winter and not to move around.

He listened, looked at me like a child, winked at me, and asked, "If obedient, can you buy my favorite brine duck to eat?" ”

I really don't understand when the winter in southern Fujian is so cold. I often stood alone in the wind, felt the wind shrinking on the scalp of my head, and then hurriedly put on my father's hat and coat. Carelessly, my father, who was originally obese, was wrapped up like a huge meatball by us, and he would often make fun of himself, which really became a "big grain".

However, that winter he suddenly passed out. Halfway through the meal, he suddenly held his head and said, a little dizzy, and then rolled his eyes and foamed.

The frightened mother hurriedly pinched the people and asked my sister to bring warm boiling water, while I rushed all the way to the doctor for help.

"I thought I was going to die." When he woke up, he said, "Well, I'm a little reluctant. ”

"Then don't die." I hugged him and refused to let go for a long time.

The good news is that my father was afraid to die again. However, the doctor also told me another bad news: as I grew older, my father's blood vessels would become more and more constricted, so that "the left half of the body would be completely unable to move, and even incontinence would be incontinent later."

At night, my mother pulled me to discuss secretly. She calculated that my father would probably be in bed in another five years, and she told me, "Don't worry I'll take care of him." That night, the mother also calculated another account, if the father lived to be eighty years old, the annual need for medicine, the living expenses of the two old people, and the "money to marry the wife", in total, there would be a lot more.

"Don't worry, our mother and son are comrades-in-arms, even if your father can't move in the future, I will take care of your father while doing handicrafts." And in these five years, you can rush as much as you can. This is the agreement between mother and son.

Although my father, like a child, pulled me not to travel far, he also accepted my preparation to go to Beijing to find a job. According to the agreement with my mother, in the past five years, I will try to rush, go home two or three times a year, and every time I go home, I will take a job, often take a picture with my father, and then hurriedly close my room to write articles. A few times he thought I was in a hurry, early in the morning downstairs kept calling me by my name, usually writing until five or six o'clock in the morning, I got up sleepily, walked downstairs, lost my temper and said to him, asked him not to argue with me anymore, and then wobbly went back to my room to sleep. But the next day, he called my name early in the morning.

After working for three years, I was surprised to find that the money I had saved was nearly two hundred thousand. I didn't tell my mother, but I had a luxury idea in my mind: to send my father to the United States to see, and I heard that there was a nano-forced forceps that could reach into the blood vessels of the human brain, and that kind of instrument might take out the valve that was stuck in my father's brain.

I began to act like a scrooge, calculating every penny of the day, and always opening an online account at night to see the little increase in numbers.

Everything is getting better, I said to my mother. She didn't know my plan, but she was clearly content with this life that had gotten out of the predicament of survival. I secretly thought that in three years, I would help my father find his left half, and then my family would recover again.

However, on that rainy afternoon, the TV on the road was playing the countdown to the opening ceremony of the World Cup. I suddenly got a call from my cousin.

Is it convenient for you to talk?

Convenient, why didn't you watch the World Cup, don't you love watching football?

I'm not convenient to watch. I'm going to talk to you about something, and you promised me, no matter what, I'll have to think about it.

What's wrong with you, talking so seriously?

Do you promise me?

Well, okay.

Your father is gone. At four o'clock in the afternoon, your mother came home and saw him fainting on the ground, and she hurriedly asked us to drive him to the hospital for emergency treatment. But on the way, he couldn't do it anymore.

Don't you already want to die? I cursed my father in my heart.

Don't you want to die? How come you don't keep your promises at all?

From Beijing to Xiamen, it was already more than eleven o'clock in the evening. Father lay in front of the hall, still fat and dissatisfied. In the neighbor's house, the cheers of the opening ceremony of the World Cup were heard. It was a four-yearly carnival all over the world, and none of them knew that on this day, the most important person in my life was gone.

I couldn't cry and kept holding my father's hand.

It was a cold and stiff hand. I couldn't suppress the anger in my heart, scolding, how can you be so useless, it will be gone when you fall, how come you don't talk about credit at all.

Blood suddenly flowed from the corners of his father's eyes and mouth.

Relatives came up to me and pulled me and didn't let me scold, she said, after death, the soul is still in the body, "You make such a fuss, he can't walk away, he will be sad to the point of bleeding, he has been difficult enough in his life, let him go, let him go." ”

I looked at the gushing blood in horror and whispered like a child, "You go well, I don't blame you, I know you really tried..."

Coaxing and coaxing, I finally couldn't help but cry.

The day after my father was cremated, I had a dream in which he asked me disgruntledly why I only burned his car and not the motorcycle, "I can't drive a car," and he said breathlessly.

Waking up and telling her mother that she didn't want to, she said she had dreamed too. In the dream, my father urged anxiously: he planned to ride his motorcycle to the beach by himself, so he had to hurry up and give it to him.

"Your lovely father." Mother smiled.