My father looked at the map of China on the wall and said, Shaanxi is like a key. With that, he unconsciously touched his belt, which contained a bunch of keys that could open an old house with a lock. The house is in southern Shaanxi, hidden in a ravine.

This is the second day after my parents came to Wuhan. It's snowing outside, and the electric heater on is like a pot of fire. Father thought it was a waste of electricity and said that if he was at home, adding some wood to the fireplace would warm him up.

I understood my father's homesickness, and then I talked to him about the tea pot in the fireplace, the simmering wine and the potatoes buried in the ashes. It seems that my father's mind is not here. He said, I wonder what happened to the painted cat in such a cold day.

This made me forget about it for a while. I have been in Wuhan for more than ten years, and I have taken my parents to live here several times. They always leave a person to look after crops at home, be polite to others, and have a painted cat. This time, they made up their minds to come together. We have to find someone to take over farming, otherwise the land will be barren; Call relatives, or the door will be locked when the guests come. As for painting cats, it is natural to ask people to cook cat rice.

My brother and sister and I don't want them to go back to their hometown, but we are afraid to tell them for fear that they will feel kidnapped. But they came, and I left them. Except weekends, there are only two of them at home. Luckily, a dog, Zhu Xiao, gave them some laughter. I call them at noon every day to ask if they have eaten. I answer that they have eaten, either boiled rice paste, boiled potatoes and beans, or boiled tofu with green vegetables, all of which are the ways of eating in my hometown.

In the evening, as usual, my father and I will have a glass of wine and chat. Usually I will talk about how a neighbor or relative lived after he went to the city, such as playing chess and reading books. Speaking of a cousin who went to a university for the aged to study calligraphy, his father said with a smile, there is no way. There is no land in the city, and my hands are idle and tired.

Father likes reading, read Six Chapters of a Floating Life, and said it was really well written. Unfortunately, Shen Fu and Yun Niang were unlucky. He praised Jiang Tan's Memories of Qiu Guang, and read Wang Zengqi's Plants on Earth, praising Mr. Wang as a nice guy. When my father was reading, my mother either teased Zhu Xiao or sat on the balcony watching flowers and plants. Mom entered the literacy class, and at first she could recognize some words, but later she forgot all about them. When all her three children were married to the city, one day she sighed, "There are three guests!" " "They envy others who have old people, young people and children at home. In fact, our family is the same, only scattered in several places.

I'm sorry to hear that. In recent years, I often have no sense of belonging to the city and often complain that I don't know if I am a guest in my dream. I have endless worries, but every time I go back to my hometown, I always look smug for fear that my parents will worry. On the way to the city, they bent down as stepping stones, and then we forgot our original dreams and got stuck in the secular world. Even if I go home to visit my relatives every year, it's true-I don't want to abandon my parents, at least I abandon my parents: other people get together to enjoy family happiness, and I am just envious and afraid of causing trouble to my children.

The year before last, my mother fell down and half of her body could not move. They didn't say a word Fortunately, when I called back, my mother said it didn't matter. I would just sleep all night tomorrow. I immediately understood what was going on and telegraphed my relatives and friends to help take them to the hospital. Although the location of the bleeding point in the brain does not hurt the key, there are still obstacles in the hands and feet. Mother said: I spent so much money this time, just like you bought your mother. I have to live well for a few years, otherwise, you are too unworthy.

One night, my father and I talked about life and death and the location of the cemetery he prepared. He said that if he died in the city, he must send his ashes back to his hometown. He said that he promised to stay with his grandmother after her death. He said that the place was close to the old house, just like sleeping in another place. Being close to the house has another advantage. If you want to see me, you don't have to run away. I thought, is it stressful for him to leave him in the city?

They are still lonely. Every time after work, they are like doormen in five-star hotels, standing at the door and waiting eagerly for a long time. I said, I used to go back twice a year, but now I am together every day. Why are you waiting? Mom said, I used to be like that, but now it's different. I have hope.

On weekends, I helped my mother go to Little Square not far away to bask in the sun. Suddenly, my mother pointed to a person and said, like a person in our village. But this is really just the beginning. Later, every time she went downstairs, she would always see a person like our village, with a back, hair or walking posture. One day, when she saw a Song Shiquan, she was very sad. Her mother was happy at once and said, look how human this dog is! I laughed too. She said the neighbor was unsmiling, but a bit like a ghost.

I smiled and smiled, and my heart was tight. It turns out that my mother is homesick, too.

As the year is approaching, parents miss the twelfth lunar month in their hometown, the smell of shochu, the smell of boiled sugar and the cheerful voice of their neighbors, all of which are lacking here. Every time relatives and friends call to say hello, my father always says nothing, and he will sigh thoughtfully when he hangs up the phone. One day, I came back, and my father said happily: My cousin who studied calligraphy at the university for the aged has returned to his hometown and no longer lives in the city. He said it's like corn grown in the park, but it's not a crop. It seems that grandpa's words made my father sing, and I was uneasy for a while.

Two days before the Spring Festival, my brother came from Nanjing, talking about a recent business trip to Guangzhou to visit an old neighbor, saying that the neighbor held his hand and cried. The younger brother said, how can an old man cry like that? Father said that young people don't know their hometown, and the ancients listed "meeting an old friend in a foreign land" and "wedding night" as four happy events in life, which is not nonsense.

It's not the first time for my parents to spend the New Year in their hometown. My mother said that a while ago, I made a wish to a king fairy in my hometown to buy incense. I made a flowerpot and put it on the balcony. Mother said to Wang Shenxian: Sorry, it's too far, you have to run away. This city dare not set off firecrackers or neglect you. I will respect you when I come back. You must try your best to realize my wishes to you. I asked my mother what she wished for, but she smiled and kept silent. I asked again, and my mother said that God Wang wanted to bless me when I was sleepy. She said that she had woken up and saw that I was still sitting, so she made a wish and asked Wang Shenxian to let me go to bed early.

There are no more love poems like that.

Grandpa has four children, only one mother survived; Grandma is special, too After giving birth to her father, she never gave birth again. As a result, the parents born in 1935 became the rare "only children" in that era.

Mom and Dad were admitted to the railway system in the early 1950s, and they were the first railway workers in New China. With longing for a new life, they took part in the railway workers' sports meeting together. My father took part in the pole vault, and my mother's event was sprint. They didn't know each other at that time, but they stayed in the same photo of the sports meeting.

They also participated in the railway theatrical performances together. My mother danced "Picking Tea to Catch Butterflies" and my father took part in the chorus-the Soviet song "Song of the Communist Youth League". After the performance, they were left in the group photo.

This is called fate.

Perhaps from then on, my father began to pay attention to my mother, a beautiful girl who is not good at words and walks with her head down, and is known as one of the "four beauties" of the railway telegraph office.

My mother saw a love letter. Among many courtship letters introducing her achievements or glorious history, there were only seven words: "I want to make friends with you." Mother replied with three words: "I agree."

Together, the simple words 10 make them endure the hardships and pains of long-term separation in the future, but they are always faithful.

One year after the establishment of the relationship, my father shouldered the responsibility of supporting his parents and went to Xinjiang with the dream of building a frontier.

It takes three days and four nights to travel from Anhui to Xinjiang by train. Two young people who have never even held hands are linked by letters, and they have never considered whether they can turn together in the future.

I once saw a little book wrapped in pictorial in my mother's drawer. On the first page, it is my father's handsome font: "Dedicated to my sister Su Qin, Ditaki."

The love poems written by my father seem to be Pushkin style, which was the fashion of that era.

There is a beautiful photo in the book. My mother has dignified hair and wears a white pearl necklace. Mom said the necklace was borrowed from a colleague. She sent this photo to her father in Xinjiang. On the back, his father solemnly wrote a quote from the Russian writer Chekhov: "Everything in a person should be beautiful, whether it is appearance, clothes, soul or thoughts. At this point, my wife is the embodiment of my ideal. " This is the image of my mother in the eyes of my idealistic father.

Various conjectures about mom and dad spread out in my little mind: Is mom older than dad? Why does dad call mom "sister"? In dad's love poems, they became two mysterious people.

Later, after my repeated verification, I finally found out that my parents were born in the same year. My father's birthday is in the first month of the lunar calendar and my mother's birthday is in November of the lunar calendar, so my mother is one year younger than my father.

But why does dad call mom "sister"? Later, I simply asked my mother, "Why does dad call you sister?"

"No, your father always calls me by my name." Mother doesn't seem to remember that book of poems.

I can only comfort myself that the tempering of years has made my mother's memory decline.

Five years after the legend of beauty, 27-year-old parents, as elders at that time, decided to get married.

But at that time, my mother didn't know if my dad could be transferred back from Xinjiang, how much my dad earned, and whether my dad had a house to live in. It was not until the first time I met my grandparents that my mother knew that they were just children like my father, and my father had to bear all the living expenses of my grandparents-I really don't know what my parents talked about in those five years of correspondence.

After working in Xinjiang for 15 years, my father finally moved back when I was 6 years old.

/kloc-in 0/5 years, my father turned his thoughts about his family and wife into strength every year, endured the suffering of three days and four nights of long-distance train journey, and enjoyed the best time in his life in just 20 days, during which three sisters were born.

After dad comes back, he will come to grandpa's house every time he eats. First of all, my mother lives in my grandfather's house. Second, there are a group of like-minded people here to discuss the fate and future of the country together. Whenever my father "points the way and inspires writing", my mother is busy with housework, but her ears are listening to their conversation, nodding and smiling from time to time. When she is free, she sits by and looks at her father affectionately, and the appreciation in her eyes is clearly for her father.

Dad, who lost his life as a poet, gave his mother a collection of love poems by world famous poets on her 50th birthday, and wrote a love poem dedicated to her in Pushkin style on the title page. The 50-year-old man still "bows down" at his mother's feet, which he calls the "goddess".

We have no such times, no such love, and no such love poems.

The third kind of pain in life

At the age of 20, I was pushed off the college entrance examination wooden bridge, and all my dreams and glory vanished overnight. I chose to escape, left the village where I was born and raised for 20 years without nostalgia, and went to work in the factory in the county alone. I want to show them how to live. I want my parents to raise their heads again in front of all the people in the village.

However, God seems determined to make me suffer. Less than half a year after I went to work, an unexpected mechanical accident once again destroyed my vision and dream-I lost my left middle finger and forefinger. It was the fifteenth day of the seventh lunar month, and I was lying alone in the ward of the hospital, aching both physically and mentally.

On the day of the accident, the factory intended to inform my parents, but I didn't agree. At this time, my parents are working in the farmland, and the bent waist is no longer so heavy.

After more than twenty days of treatment in the hospital, I was discharged from the hospital. At this time, there are still three days before the Mid-Autumn Festival, and the factory gave me a month off. Sitting on the bus home, my mood is extremely complicated. When I left this village, I swore that I would never go back unless I was hanging out with others. Now that I'm back, not only has my condition not changed, but I've lost two fingers. I really feel unable to face my parents.

On the way, I suddenly stood up several times and wanted to get off and go back. But on second thought, what can I do if I go back? It's a fact that the finger is gone. I can't choose not to see my parents for life just because I have two fingers missing.

Walking to the end of the village and looking at the door from a distance, I even lost the courage to move forward. I don't know how long I lingered under the big elm tree at the entrance of the village, and I don't know how many times I made up my mind. I finally appeared in front of my mother.

My mother was not surprised that I came back, but she was surprised and said, "It's very kind of your company to have a holiday in advance." Mom thought I was coming back for the Mid-Autumn Festival.

My left hand has been in my trouser pocket since I walked into the house. I talked to my mother as if nothing had happened. My mother asked me about my work and life, and I said it was fine.

I asked my father what he had done. My mother told me that my cousin is getting married today, and he went to the wedding reception, and may not come back until evening.

My mother asked me, "Are you hungry?" I said I had dinner this morning. Mother said, "You are thirsty. Go inside and cool off for a while. I went to Gua Tian in the east to buy two watermelons. " I said no, but my mother picked up the basket anyway.

When my mother handed me the watermelon, I picked it up with my right hand. When I eat watermelon, I always hold it in my right hand, and my left hand is always in my trouser pocket.

I chewed a few bites of watermelon. Maybe I'm too nervous. I accidentally dropped the watermelon on the ground. I also used my right hand when I went to pick up watermelons, which caught my mother's attention. She asked me, "What happened to your left hand?" I didn't say anything, just touched it. Hearing this, my mother jumped up and said to me, "Show me quickly." I refused, turned and ran back to my room, and my mother followed me. She took my arm and pulled my hand out of my trouser pocket. Mom only took one look and cried like a child.

My mother looked at my hand repeatedly and cried 10 minutes. Then she asked me, "How long has it been? Does it still hurt? " Mom didn't ask me how I touched it and how the factory handled it. In her opinion, the process of touching is no longer important. What she can't accept is such a result.

All day, my mother looks dull and always speaks incoherently. I tried to smile and comfort her, but every time I appeared in front of my mother, she cried again.

At night, lying in bed, I didn't fall asleep At ten o'clock, my father came back. As soon as my father pushed the door, my mother turned on the light in the yard. I know my mother didn't sleep at all. She is waiting for her father.

That is, three or five minutes, my father hurriedly pushed open my door. I know my mother told him about me in these three to five minutes.

My father turned on the light in my room. He drank a lot of wine. When he opened my door, I smelled the alcohol on him. I have been afraid of my father since I was a child. I really dare not face him, so I have to pretend to sleep and close my eyes tightly.

My father came to my bed, held the bed, squatted down slowly, and put his head close to my hand on his body. My father is nearsighted and his face is close to my hand. I can feel the air he is breathing in my hand. It's hot.

After seeing my hand, my father suddenly sat down on the ground. Perhaps because of drinking, he sat on the ground for a long time before getting up. When he stood up, I secretly saw him crying, too, silently.

After my father stood firm, he sat next to me by the bed. His hand was raised several times and stretched out in front of me as if to touch it, but he tried to touch my hand several times and shrank back.

At this moment, I really want to sit up and jump into my father's arms and cry. But I held back, even holding my breath.

After a while, dad went to the cupboard and got a pillow. He gently picked up my hand and laid it flat on the pillow. He was afraid that I would turn over at night and hurt my wound.

When my father left my room, his footsteps were light. He moved out of my room almost bit by bit. After a while, I heard sobbing in my parents' room. ...

It was a deep, extremely depressed, painful voice, my mother's voice. She burst into tears and finally cried out of breath. My father's deep wail also reached my ears bit by bit.

I finally understand: my body is given by my parents, and my two fingers are connected to my parents' hearts! In fact, the most unbearable pain in life is not the pain of physical disability, nor the pain of the soul when hopes are dashed and life choices are made, but the third kind of pain-the pain that parents can't "suffer for their children" while watching their children suffer!