Everyone has only a short life. In fact, a person's life is just a period of time borrowed from time, and the years have passed. In this short time, step by step, we slowly carved the tombstone of life, and the epitaph on the tombstone is the small trace left by people in this world.
Over time, some people left a heavy mark in the long river of history, and later the world rushed to praise them; Some people have left traces in the long river of history, but later people have gradually forgotten it in the long river of time. "Death is more important than Mount Tai; Or lighter than feathers. " This is probably the best portrayal of these people!
As we all know, Sima Qian was jailed for historical records, but he still insisted on his beliefs and finally completed this immortal work. Although ridiculed, Confucius traveled around the world and publicized his thoughts for ten years, but no one appreciated it, but today's society has greatly publicized his thoughts; Madame Curie discovered radium after several years of careful research, but refused to apply for a patent; Yuan Longping worked tirelessly and went to the fields personally, and finally cultivated the "Oriental Magic Rice", but he also shut out the money; After decades of painstaking research by Deng Jiaxian, many large "mushroom clouds" have finally emerged over the territory of China. Too many great men devoted their whole lives to their persistent career, but their persistence in life still left obvious traces in the years of history. I'm sure they will be happy with the result.
In modern society, the rapid development of the world seems to make people fall into a fast-paced life. People live in a hurry, come in a hurry, and even live in a hurry, as if they were too busy to have a rest. However, when I was asleep, I looked back and found that I didn't seem to have done anything important. In fact, people can enjoy time slowly, instead of rushing to let time fool you. Think carefully, sometimes when we slow down, we will find that there are beautiful scenery that we have neglected on the road we have hurried through, and then there will be a small touch in our hearts: life is really beautiful!
Confucius said: "The deceased is like a husband, not giving up day and night!" This sentence just shows the passage of time. Some people say that since time is like running water, we should seize the time and not waste any time. Actually, it's not. As we all know, if you hold water in your hand and hold it tightly, it will drain quickly, leaving only a few drops of water. Isn't time the same? We held it carefully in our hands, but it flowed through our fingers. So we need to grasp time in a relaxed way, otherwise time will only leave us and run forward vigorously. We should use this limited time to draw a beautiful trace in the long sky of history.
Every dawn is the beginning of life, and every dusk is the summary of life. Every such short life can leave a little lovely professional footprint and a little trace of your inner essence in this faint world and the flow of things. And this trace that belongs to you will remain quietly in the years. ...
There was a light rain last night. Nange Village was like an ink painting, soaked, but it blended the ancient rhyme into the world. The deep part of my memory seems to have been touched, and it is amazing to recall the past.
On the hill behind the house, the soil is soft and sticky. If one foot goes down, it's stuck in it, and it's hard to pull it out again. I hate going out in this weather, but I like this fishy and sweet air. When the weather is fine, grandma will pick cotton vegetables and leave them in Tomb-Sweeping Day to make a green ball, which is my favorite food. I really want to see where the cotton vegetables that can make such delicious green balls grow. Grandma was carrying a bamboo basket, and I followed her, stepping on the country road and entering the arms of the mountains. Fortunately, we soon found a vegetable. They may have been born only yesterday, green, as if nature had given them all the vitality, and green slowly flowed into my heart. Cotton cabbage has a fluffy layer of fine hair, which is really cute. I reached out and picked it up from the bottom of the cotton tray and harvested the first cotton tray! We went on, but there was no sign of cotton and vegetables. I asked anxiously, "Where is the cotton dish hidden?" Grandma smiled and said, "Because everyone is going to be a youth league, there will be no cotton food if you come late." My heart thumped when I heard this. What if all the flowers are picked? I can't eat green balls! I quickly took grandma's hand and urged her to hurry up, otherwise the cotton dishes would be gone. Grandma is happy: "silly child, there will be cotton dishes on rainy days!" " "We walked straight along the path and turned a corner. A piece of green came into view, and the cotton vegetable seemed tender enough to pinch water. I like to find a piece of gold and silver treasure and cheer for my grandmother behind me! I ran to this piece of green and integrated myself into it. I picked it desperately, and I won't stop until dusk falls.
How time flies! I often sigh! Think about the past as if it happened yesterday. On a whim, I decided to relive the happiness that that road brought me. The stone road at the foot is still the same as before, as if nothing has changed. That bamboo forest is still so tall and straight. Some bamboos seem to be new after the Spring Festival, which is different from others. Up is a stone step, which I used to jump on when I was a child. There is a tenacious weed beside the stairs. I still remember that I killed that weed and trampled it hard. It's stupid to think about it. Maybe this is naive. I went to the cotton vegetable field before, but it has really changed a lot in a few years. What used to be a "towering tree" for yourself is no more than that now. The ground is overgrown with weeds, tall and short, fat and thin, beautiful and ugly, just like a big family in all corners of the country. Looking for, looking for the marble I once buried. Naive me, naive child, once thought that marbles could grow after being planted. A tree tied with a red rope is where I hide marbles. I don't know if I can find it after all these years. Finally, I found the tree. However, this tree is full of weeds, so it can't be found anymore. Then keep it, let it replace me, and be integrated with nature.
Along the path, along the trace, I look for my own memory.
In the yard where I have lived for more than ten years, the tall loquat tree is full of traces of my existence in this life, which appears inadvertently and is deeply branded in my life.
In the summer morning, the girl's laughter came from the yard. Under the loquat tree bathed in sunshine, there is a girl with short hair in a long skirt. She was carrying some old vegetable baskets in her hand, bent down and picked the orange loquat fruit with a little dew. Her mouth turned up silently, and her eyes were full of joy and satisfaction. At her side, there is a waist-high child. Waving two short arms, she kept running around the girl and laughing, trying to attract all her attention, but it seemed that she was just coquetry with the girl and wanted a fresh loquat to satisfy her hunger. The summer sunshine, which has not yet become hot, gently falls on her through the gaps in the leaves of loquat trees, adding a touch of vitality to the quiet morning. Next to them is the thick trunk of loquat tree, with wooden ladders on the branches and the top submerged in dense branches and leaves. A tall man stood on the ladder and shook the branches of loquat with his hands. Those ripe fruits rushed down and hit the soft land, making a "bang" sound, leaving traces in circles. That is the trace of my childhood, full of laughter and happiness.
In the winter afternoon, the sun is just right. The grown-up girl chased her sister who kept making her laugh in the yard, and the immature laughter echoed in the yard, as clear as a bell and as warm as the winter sunshine. Under the loquat tree, sat an old man with half white hair. Her small body almost completely sank into the thick red mat behind her and beneath her. Every tiny movement of her body, the rhubarb rattan chair under her will make a "squeaky" sound, which seems a little lazy in this warm afternoon. With a doting smile on her mouth, her eyes narrowed, and her eyes turned with the figures of her two granddaughters, like a yellow flower surrounded by dark green leaves on a loquat tree, vaguely quiet and serene. Her hands are slowly peeling oranges and wrapping the clean pulp with paper towels. When her granddaughters were a little tired, she seemed to know everything, and stretched out her voice in a hoarse voice, calling on her granddaughters to enjoy oranges. This warm time didn't end until it was getting late and there was a chill in the air. The impression of rhubarb rattan chair on the land is the trace of my childhood, ordinary but warm.
Under the loquat tree, there are traces, old or new, deep or shallow. Perhaps they have been covered by loess, but in my mind and heart, they have not been eroded by years, nor have they been cracked by the scorching sun. They are my only precious trace, called affection.
The purple peach at the bottom of the fourth floor is as motionless as death, but it just blooms in large groups of red flowers. A few sparrows are standing on the branches, still like sketches of art students, which is very boring. When my eyes shifted, I suddenly saw two pots of mimosa in front of my door, and I couldn't help thinking of something.
When a family has gone through demolition, resplendent crystal lamps are hung high from the ceiling, making the house brightly lit, just like a feast held in a palace. The 42-inch LCD TV is magnificent in the living room, stepping on the mahogany floor, the surrounding tiles are shining, and everything is full of modern atmosphere. Under the voice of my parents, my family finally got rid of that old house, and the decoration style is the same. There is no small garden in front of the courtyard, no side dishes behind the house, only anti-theft measures to imprison me.
My thoughts flew to the small garden at that time. The flowers inside are not expensive, but they decorate the home and bring us a little petty bourgeoisie. What I like best are those two pots of mimosa. I will touch one leaf at a time like a child. They are really shy to hide themselves. Then I squatted quietly and waited for them to be released. In this way, I can stay in peace for an afternoon. Mr. Lao She sat on a stone and looked at tadpoles in the water and young dragonflies on reed leaves. His heart is relaxed, like a child sleeping in a cradle, I can understand. I also measured their "shame time" at that time. Listen, it's very literary! Like the physics experiment, in order to reduce the error, I measured it in the morning, in the middle and in the evening, averaged it and made a table. I posted this kind of behavior that is either sick or talented on the Internet. Most of the following is a compliment to my spirit. I feel sorry for those mimosa plants. I hope they don't "cramp" or "facial paralysis" or anything. The green of mimosa is fresh and striking, not too thick, but it lacks depth. For this reason, I took many artistic photos for them: nourishing photos after the spring rain, bright and dark photos at dusk, gentle and charming photos.
Mimosa brought me more than that. It really makes me "accumulate good deeds and become virtuous, while the gods are complacent and the sacred heart is prepared". Of course, I am a little boastful. I used to water them with a small shower. Gradually, I began to learn various watering postures, which sounded like China Tea Ceremony, but I was just an amateur.
Really, when I look back on all this, I am still moved by it, but I can't find that familiar feeling anymore, I know. Or I was absorbed in thinking, the rotating pen flew out, drew irregular lines in the air and fell to the ground with a bang. Colorless sunlight passes through the transparent pen tube and breaks down into light rainbows-red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple, which are complex but not messy colors. I lay prone on the windowsill, as if I heard the sparse sound of the sun through the air. ...
I dare not forget the traces of time.
There is a watch repair shop in town, which has been open for more than twenty years.
I remember the first time I went there, I was immediately shocked by the dazzling sight. The shop is not big, but it is full of watches. Although the looks are different, the time is surprisingly consistent. Bright yellow light falls on the wall, shining like a lake at night.
The owner of the shop is surnamed Zhang, and everyone he knows generally calls him Lao Zhang. Lao Zhang often sits behind the counter all day. He likes watching Beijing opera, and always puts on a passage, and then lies on the couch as if he were asleep. I asked him, "Grandpa Zhang, what's so interesting about this Peking Opera? It is better to watch something else. " He smiled and even the recliner shook. After laughing, he said, "You will understand when you grow up."
It was too far away for me to grow up then, so I stopped thinking about it.
Maybe only repairing the watch can cheer him up. Whenever he wants to repair his watch, I will stand by and watch him take out a big iron box and magically take out tools from it. I showed curiosity, and he would take pains to explain the functions of various tools to me. After that, he will open the back cover of the watch and take out the parts carefully like a doctor operating on a patient to check what is wrong. Usually, it takes two or three days to repair a watch.
However, more often, he is idle, and there is not a guest in the shop for a day. I asked him more than once: "Grandpa Zhang, you see that it is only tens of dollars to buy a watch outside now. Who will come to you? " People's electronic watches are cheap and convenient, and you can also switch to selling electronic watches. He stopped his work, his eyes were straight, and even his voice was a little louder. This electronic watch was churned out by several machines. Is it also called a watch? We used to make watches carefully one by one. A watch can be used for decades, unlike now. "I laughed at him for being too stuffy. He was silent for a long time and said, "You will understand when you grow up. "
This sentence comes again. I didn't bother to think about it, so I silently watched him continue fighting with a desk full of tools.
The watch was repaired, but no one came to pick it up. Lao Zhang fidgeted for several days and decided to visit Lao Li, the owner of the watch.
When I came to Lao Li's house, I pushed open the door. Lao Li is lying in bed, pale, having difficulty breathing and fainting. Lao Li's son stood by and saw Lao Zhang come in. He was overjoyed: "Uncle Zhang, you are here! My father he "he trembled. Lao Zhang stepped forward, squatted by Lao Li's bed, took out his watch collection and said softly, "I brought your strap." Lao Li's dull eyes flashed. He said in a trembling, intermittent voice, "I have never used anything well in my life, even my body is not enough." Only this watch, I have used it all my life, please repair it in the next life. " Lao Zhang's voice choked: "Yes," I stood at the door, unconsciously wetting my eyes.
I saw Lao Zhang dressed in black on the day of Lao Li's funeral. Like a devout religious believer, I put my watch in the middle of the mourning hall. The watch is still stubbornly walking, one grid after another, neither fast nor slow.
Suddenly, I grew up.
Because at that moment, I saw the traces of time.
The snow covered the ground tightly, and I softened a pile of snow with one foot, leaving clear footprints on my feet, which were concave and convex. However, as soon as the sun came out, the snow melted and there was no trace, unlike the traces left in the past, which are still there today.
At that time, I was still young, and soon I ran away without a trace, and my hair was running around in a mess. My boss turned to the west and didn't go home at dusk. At this time, grandma's cry can be heard everywhere, long, sharp and ugly. That's what I thought at first anyway.
Every time I hear the urging call, I will hide, either in my neighbor's house or squatting on the ridge. I don't want to go home. I always feel that the outside world is more exciting, and there are only brick walls, tile houses and simple meals at home.
But grandma can always find me at once and catch me when I play. Then he grabbed my arm, and I couldn't beat grandma's big hand no matter how hard I struggled. So we walked home with the afterglow. Sunset always pulls my grandmother and me for a long time, as if at the height of the shadow, we can reach home in one step. Grandma still held my hand tightly for fear that I would run away. I squirmed all the way like a little water snake, whining and muttering, secretly protesting between my teeth.
Late at night, grandma hugged me to sleep, and the moonlight shone into the house through the wooden window of the old house, reflecting the white light and shadow of buckwheat. Grandma's arms are always soft and warm, only to hear her say in a particularly helpless tone: "Next time grandma calls, you will go home!" " "I was sleepy, but I cried in a hurry. I was fascinated.
Another dusk, I completely forgot my promise and still ran around the village, as if I could use inexhaustible power when playing. Just as I was about to turn into a good hiding place, my grandmother who chased me all the way from home found me, and I immediately turned around and ran. My little body wears very fast, and my grandmother drags plastic slippers behind me, screaming and running to stop me. I run much faster than my grandmother, and I seem particularly excited about the result. I ran harder, and suddenly I heard the sound of stones rolling behind me-grandma fell down. I quickly turned back and helped grandma stand up. There are pebbles on her knees. I opened my mouth, but I didn't know what to say Grandma held my hand as usual and said, "Let's go home."
After dinner, I obediently sat in a small chair and accompanied my grandmother to clean up the wound. There were many pebbles embedded in her knees, and she picked them out one by one with a sewing needle, mixed with bright red and left uneven scars. I can't bear to see it. I covered my eyes with my hand, but the hot liquid slipped from my fingers. My heart seems to have those marks, and it hurts slightly. Grandma saw me sad and pretended to be relaxed and said, "Don't go home!" " "Then he sighed again." Fortunately, grandma fell. "I covered my face more tightly.
The mark on grandma's knee hasn't disappeared yet, and I haven't been home late since then. Those traces have never faded in my heart, and I don't want people who love me to worry and get hurt again.
As long as you call, I will go home.
The examination room is very quiet. This is the first research exam for ninth-grade graduates. It is conceivable that it plays an important role in their lives.
On that day, the weather was bad, it was raining heavily and hitting the thick glass plate. This is the only sound, except for the slight sound of the invigilator's heavy leather boots pacing back and forth, and the sharp eagle eyes behind the glowing glasses. From time to time, the teacher walked from one end of the classroom to the other and glanced back and forth. The students marked the test paper with pens.
He was unkempt and at a loss, looking around. This man is an old hand in the class. His name is Swing. His every move naturally attracted the close attention of the teacher.
Finally, at the right time, the swing patted the left classmate on the shoulder, but people ignored him, and his spirit dropped by half first; Go to the right again, and the result is still the same. Instead, the teacher's eyes focused on him, making him afraid to lift it and his face turned gray. No way, the swing can only secretly poke the back of the white classmate in front, but the white messenger is immersed in calculation. How can he care?
Helpless, once, twice, three times, the white messenger finally turned around. Without saying a word, he swung the hastily written note, but he got impatient and Lian Bi flew out. It lightly drew a semicircle in the air, like playing acrobatics. When the white messenger saw a note flying by, he was on guard. He picked up the paper and threw it on the ground. I was about to turn around, but I forgot to watch out. The pen tip is facing down, facing the middle of the collar, and a thick black mark is drawn, which is so dazzling on the white suit.
A scream broke the silence of the classroom;
A burst of thunder left blood.
The teacher who has been watching for a long time is coming towards them step by step, and their heartbeat is fluctuating with the footsteps.
The swing came forward to admit its mistake. The teacher sneered: the score of this course will be 0! Stand in the back!
In this way, the swing stood behind with a white face until the bell rang.
He ran away, and the white messenger in white with dry ink followed him out with the note in his hand.
He looked at the swing and rushed into the toilet, wondering, and opened the note, which read:
Please give me a piece of paper. I'm in a hurry to get into WC.
A bolt from the blue, across a shiny trace in the air, stabbed his heart.
Swing grass, which came out easily from WC, saw the white messenger who had been standing under the tree for a long time, and looked amazed.
The white messenger immediately stepped forward and confided the truth to him. In this way, the two teenagers were singing and dancing under the big tree, and their eyes were full of excited tears. Thunderstorm was their accompaniment.
They went to talk to the invigilator at once, and the teacher made a decision at once.
In the evening, two candidates carrying schoolbags were walking on the campus path. A string of muddy footprints is a trace of friendship.
A trace, a perceptible trace of the passing process.
-inscription
I was born in a small town in the north. It is too small to find any trace of existence on the map. The town bathed in a short summer and endured a long cold, bearing the warmth in my heart under the cold.
A while ago, my mother and I cleaned the closet, and there was a pack of clothes in the bottom drawer. Mother took them out one by one and spread them on her lap. It turned out that they were all clothes I wore when I was a child. There is a goose yellow cotton-padded jacket, which I have seen in old photos. I am well dressed, holding my father in one hand and my mother in the other, with a bright smile. I felt the lines on my little cotton-padded jacket and imagined my mother making me a cotton-padded jacket. My heart is like a bite of wild fruit, sour and sweet. The sweet thing is my mother's care for me, the sour thing is my mother's hard work over the years, and the astringent thing is that I have grown up and things have changed. All kinds of past events have left traces in my heart, deep and shallow, long and short. They crisscross in my heart like ditches.
With the passage of time, some traces in my heart have long been blurred and grown up unconsciously. The furnishings in the room have already changed, and there is no trace of childhood. Except for the shallow pencil line on the door.
That is my height. My father measured me. Every time I measure, I tiptoe gently, hoping to grow faster and faster. But every time I was crushed by my father. Therefore, those shallow pencil lines faithfully record my growth.
I wonder if all babies have no memory. Anyway, I forgot it mercilessly. I can only relive my childhood memories through old photos. Once when I was looking through photos, I found a rather "spoof" one. In the photo, I don't know if my father or mother took me to the kitchen sink to wash vegetables. I showed the photo to my mother and complained that she said, "Look! You were willing to play tricks on me when I was a child. " Dad leaned in and looked at the photo and smiled. It turned out that it was the first winter I spent since I was born. My parents gave me a bath for fear of freezing, so I turned on the stove and let me wash in the warm kitchen. At that time, my family was not rich, and even the camera that took my picture was borrowed. Parents have no money, but they have the heart to let their daughter take one comfortable hot bath after another in the cold winter in the north. The time stops at 1 1 month forever, and it is fixed at the moment when the photo is fixed.
I secretly feel guilty for my parents. I'm angry that I only saw the hands they sent me to the pool, but I didn't see the stoves outside the photo. This is our job. We often only see the severity of our parents, but ignore the deep love of the package under the severity. I keep this long-lost trace in my heart, together with the guilt I just felt.
Let's keep those traces of love deep in our hearts. ...