Tearful prose grandmother (a)
That day at noon, almost to the meal time, did not see you down I went up to call you.
Who would have thought that this meal you can never eat, empty stomach away.
In the past few years, you have been living with me in Foshan, changing one place after another, with nearly ninety years old, every time you look for a rental house is to touch a lot of dust, the owner is not willing to rent their own old house to such a gray-haired old man to settle down. I'm the one who suffered. In this world and in this country, the rich are too rich and the poor are too poor, and your grandson, being one of the poor, couldn't buy you a house and let you die violently on a cot in a 10-square-foot rented house the night before the summer vacation. He will feel guilty for the rest of his life. You left so abruptly, not even a word of farewell, the ghost of the hook is too unkind. He will spend his life meditating on what you wanted to say in that last sentence.
Even shouting and crying, crying, mourning, confirmed that you can no longer respond to me. Your soul has gone far, far away, never, never to be heard.
The body that had been humped for twenty-five years was finally straight for once. You sleep on your back, mouth open, empty stomach words shot to the ceiling against the lone lamp, your shriveled breasts exposed, already dry and hard, too hot weather you can only sleep naked last night, the old fan on the table shook its head breathlessly. This lonely old man in this country, your body has become lighter and lighter because you are far away. And I was powerless to dress you intact, all the joints stiffened you. I actually had a timid fear of facing a cold corpse. On the contrary, with your occasional stumbling with your granddaughter-in-law cleverly help you on the left sleeve. Then turn your skinny right shoulder, turn your thin body, slowly give your remains dressed. How heartbreaking, looking at you so unwillingly stiff face, all the teeth of the mouth is still open, before you go you should have how many words to say. You left with heatstroke, struggling with a puddle of undried, salt-foam-like sweat on the bedsheets, and I was at least four hours late. The air that filled the room with the stench of a corpse blamed me y. Thirty-three years of grandchildren and grandchildren are now parted. From now on, you can no longer suffer with me, but I can no longer support you, you raised me for more than twenty years, but I only raised you for ten years, how unfair ah!
You don't have any children, and I've been fatherless since I was a child, so I'm lucky to have you, who raised me and provided me with education. You are sixty years old before you began to adopt me, it is not easy, grandmother, I became an adult, but can not be the same as you, hard-working, simple, spotless, you forgive me all the bad habits and laziness, to three times the age of the mother and love you this little grandchild. My gray-haired grandmother. In my seventeenth year, I can no longer tolerate you with seventy-five years of age to earn money for me to go to school, I was determined to drop out of school. But you did not give me to go south to work, I stayed at home and wrote poems like crazy. At that time, the county radio station also broadcast my work every day like crazy, the neighbors heard you thumbs up in front of your grandson genius ah, don't say how happy you are. Later, the press also frequently appeared my name, you can not read a word, but also took the newspaper carefully look, sometimes take a look at the flip I can not bear to break. Youthful ambition but also delayed my youth, imprisoned at home for a few years to write the text, money and silver but not much income, the family's economy was once tense. Afterwards, more downtrodden I have been in the county streets selling paintings, selling words, long hair flying in the passers-by in the eyes of the different like cutting through the world so blinding. Finally, I can not stay at home. As the old saying goes, when your parents are around, you don't have to travel far. But I ran away from home when you were eighty years old, leaving you alone at home. The day I came out in addition to the ticket I was clutching only crumpled forty-seven dollars, and you do not have enough in hand a hundred, but also have to wait until the second month of my salary in order to send money back. Day, how so difficult, out of a few years, I guarded the store again and again stolen stolen, wages are deducted in these store funds, every month is to borrow money to you remit back. For just out of the monthly salary of 400 yuan I can only send you a dry 100 dollars a month, and you save a year down and 500, looking at that hidden in the wall cracks with old newspapers wrapped in moldy money, I can not imagine how grandma's days. Think about it, these years, we are a couple of children's consumption of nearly 2,000 is still so compact, and then think of grandma ten years ago dozens of dollars of food costs (prices were about the same in those days), heartbreaking can not help. Out to work, leaving grandma alone at home, hungry a person to cook, sick a person to see a doctor, lonely a person to talk to themselves, grandma is alive or dead, I can say that I do not know, call grandma deaf, write grandma and illiterate, the heart suffocated hard. New Year's Day is a rare return, two people who are attached to each other a year to rely on these days to treat the already broken liver and intestines. Remember, the first year back that time, you hard to squeeze in my bed and I sleep, I did not feel uncomfortable, I caressed your wrinkled forehead, tears soaked corners of the eyes, wet ear root. Yu Jian said his mother is the mother of pure cotton, 100% cotton, he means that his mother is vulgarly warm, soft, wrapped? Behind the times of the material, always for the sons, afraid of cold and hot. I, on the other hand, would like to say that my grandmother is pure hemp, grandmother gave me love, like hemp rope, although rough but firm, like a sack generally loaded with rice in general, and even like dense mosquito netting surrounded me, while the trouble, but left to themselves. Seven or eight years later, finally boiled out of the head, I'm a poor boy also begged a wife, gave birth to a child, you received you around, the days of peace and happiness has not been, I did not expect? But you? So without saying a word, he left.
Looked at you by the undertaker rolled in the bag was carried away hunched into a ball of appearance, pain, there is the power of cracking. This goodbye, is forever, I think you can only rely on the memory, a sharp pain in the far away stopped there, you? Far away you can never come back.
The next day, my wife and I went to the funeral home for the aftermath. What hurts me more is that I can't afford to buy a coffin for you, and the life jacket and urn are also cheap, in this city, even death is pricey. In this city, even death has a price. Those who have money can afford a coffin for tens of thousands of dollars, while those who don't have money, like your grandson, only have a paper coffin for you, which makes me feel very guilty and painful. Looking at your remains that had been refrigerated for a day, looking at your once deep in your eye sockets, the pale eyelids covered with all the thousands of feet deep of your doting on me for the past thirty-three years, I almost collapsed. The entire ceremony was organized by the staff, and the desire to see more than a few minutes and seconds was controlled, and I couldn't get enough of my teary eyes in the final moments. You were the only one who couldn't open your eyes again. A night of frost on your face, the world has no novelty to make you move, lips pursed, nostrils locked, you no longer need to cling to this deadly and changing world. I mournfully touched your cold lips with my index finger, how I wanted to be close to you again, to be close to you, to be close to you, to listen to you. So much so, that I can't hear the staff's broken voice. The last ****ing moment of existence in this crunch is the beginning of the bifurcation, when you are slowly pushed away and taken away and collected forever. The end thus unfolds, the bones thus crunch. Witnessed your body into the furnace, I was outside the incinerator to grab the sky and howl howling endlessly, my wife was also beside the tears beside the face, but compared with the near side of a furnace dozens of people collectively cry, the world left you a scene is really too bleak. You in the cremator experienced a flat furnace nearly half an hour of cremation, pick meat into smoke and bone into ash. Out of the furnace after you meet with Calvary, looking at you lying on your back in the shape of a pile of bones without a trace of meat off the shelf, white and blinding, after the residual incandescence of broken bones is still a little bit pungent, you a piece of a piece of lying there, you one by one and I separated, this is a kind of our grandma and grandchildren's final confrontation, this is the last most helpless since we get along with the silence, your empty cranial bones, deep cranial nest is still so kindly looked at me, no wrinkles The frontal bone so smooth, deaf ears for many years finally let the temporal bone through, the face of the skull is still full of amicable, and maxillary and mandibular jaw how I hope that it is at this moment to make a sound, usually in the TV to see people creepy Calvary bones, at this moment I am how much I stayed and not enough to see the same. Grandma, grandma in the bones, the fine and large bones, leaving me the last grandma's appearance, I crouched down and watched the staff next to the grandma's appearance a little bit of dismantling, but also the grandma's bones one by one to be cracked, the pile of skeletons, grandma, you left me the last percussive music, is the last shattered, the last of your form only a cup of ash powder. I will embrace the ashes cup in my arms even with the can you are not enough five pounds, or the weight of the can you have been less than a pound, but I hold the hand as heavy as lead. Finally, your urn will be put into a cardboard box, packed, hidden from view, you will be transported back to the hometown through the bus. In this city, I can't afford to buy a cemetery for you. Leaves return to their roots, is the last most decent pseudo-consolation I give you.
Tear-jerking prose grandmother (two)
The so-called blood is thicker than water, the children of China like to search for the roots, like to inquire about the line of descent, and speak of the line of descent which is not an abstract existence, but is actually flowing in the blood of each one of us inside the blood, the memory of, ? The roots of grasses and trees, mountains and Kunlun, rivers and seas? , so we talk about heredity as well as inheritance. Grandma, my relationship with you is not direct, but without you, I would have cut off the flow. Which mountain was my childhood buried in? In which river did youth die? Four seasons, week after week, it is you with the age of my whole a son to lead me through the substance of the jungle, to recognize the world, it is you will be the swaddling clothes of the baby pulled up, it is you let me out of the body.
Inquiring about the ins and outs of my life, this non-bloodline search for relatives, with love for the pulse finally let me find the great source of love of an ordinary Chinese woman. Grandma is like my distant mother, the source of love, even after three generations of age is still, so fresh. The blood in my veins was mixed with the blood and tears that flowed down from the source by my grandmother, and my flow was able to continue, and I therefore have the grandmother's motherly love system belonging to the not-so-secret personal spiritual biography of DNA, and I also have that part of my grandmother's qualities in my bones that shouldn't be taken away from me, raising me, teaching me, and even hitting me, scolding me, and teaching me by example? It's all so solvable, really, because it all points to destiny. There is grief and realization. Or all women are just women, and all my mothers are just grandmothers I met in this life, so penetratingly bleak. Under the face that has been worn out by the earth, the other face of my mother in three lifetimes has also been able to show up in this lifetime with the help of my grandmother.
I always thought, grandmother, and mother, there is no difference.
However, Grandma, I don't dare to recall how you brought me up as a baby in the 1970s when there was a lack of food. In my ignorance, I didn't really envy the children who had a mother, because you gave me double the love of a mother. I'm so bad at writing memoirs, could it be because you were too old, Grandma, and I was too young, and that three generations of time face-to-face with a pile of favors a generation apart left me with no way to clean up. Passed away, my grandmother like turning white hair rolling transported away I want to recall the vicissitudes of the avenue.
Grandma, back hump because of me, a more than sixty old man often carrying a child to do work, years and years, how can not hump? This is pulled by years of days full of flesh and blood of the bow, until I was four or five years old is not reluctant to put me this arrow character away from the string, so that I was often laughed at by the little friends, this doting like grandma's eye sockets are unfathomable. Crouching on my grandmother's back, with her big hands holding my little buttocks, the pleasure of my grandmother making me a donkey or a horse at that time has turned into the discomfort of today's recollection, which y reproaches me for being so young and uninvolved. When I think of my wife carrying my son on her back for a long time, I can't help but be saddened by the fact that I once bullied my powerless grandmother so much. It is futile to blame myself today, for my existence has dragged down my bitter grandmother, and I have sinned by not letting her spend her twilight years in peace. Lion dance crowd came, Grandma will carry me through the crowd drilling pile desperately trying to make a good position for me, dressed up the crowd of ancient people came, singing tea crowd came, dancing spring bull crowd came, a year a lively day tossed Grandma is happy, breathless. Grandma always insisted to satisfy my young and ignorant curiosity. Grandma's spine is so for me a little bit bent, base out of the hump, that is the grandmother piled up to my love I can not know. The hump, like the grandmother's grace to me, so prominent. For grandma hump this result, but from my masterpiece, I am ashamed of my heart.
To your grave is also like a camel, a pile of yellow soil base on my deeper and greater shame on you, how should I use the inscription to summarize your life? But your grandson can't afford to buy a stone to give you a model. I'll owe you for a while. There will be unicorns, cranes, and two dragons playing with pearls, but unfortunately, that's not yours, Grandma. That's the XX Anniversary Cemetery. That's the underground palace of the rich. There will be the rattling of cool moonlight, there will be ghosts pushing plates, a stone uttering the solemnity of a price tag of 8 million dollars, the splendor of life, the luxury of death? Everything will trip over class. There will be oil of the rich and no blood of the poor in the dust. In this world, people have human essence, and after the white bones there are white bones, so there will also be underground CBD, there will be the back garden of life? There will be a hundred generations, there will be a stench for ten thousand years, who is a man of honor, who is a ghost? Who is a man of honor and who is a ghost? The sky is already an old newspaper soiled again and again. Only that repeated lie, there will be a future, just stay there, watch the sunset blackened by incense, under the portrait of death, that is the first time, there are displaced lonely souls, see the starlight lifting up the camera in the photo? As a poor man, because you I can not exaggerate the hatred of the world, I give you the shabby because I am not good enough; as a grandson, life can not give you peace and happiness, death can not give you peace and quiet, and I have this debt is long enough to become dragged into debt. I also can not as a poet, fictionalize your image with words. Your tombstone is not not erected, first empty, the thirty years of your love for me is not a stone can repay. Neither can the unicorn, nor the ancient crane, nor any feng shui treasure. You also can't accept anything, after that, once a year back here to see you, burning incense and fire, kowtow, are just a ritual. Everything belonging to you is extinguished, in front of the grave last time to open the urn to see you, because of this custom before burial to take blood to bone, I have to bite through the index finger drop a drop of blood to your skull, in this critical juncture, I actually bite not to bleed, on the sidelines of the cousin grabbed the head of the right hand with a kind of ??? stabbed my forefinger, a drop of blood came out of the cousin pressed down on my fingers coated with the grandmother's broken bones, staring at the stained with my blood on the grandmother's broken bones! The last meeting of the inevitable was accomplished in this way. The predictable primal urge to see blood and bone? Is that what Cousin realized so that we could identify in the afterlife? Grandma's life ended this way. The afterlife, I know that's a lie. The world I live in now is a different one, one without my grandmother. I'd like to add the last handful of soil to my grandmother's grave, knocked over three heads, turned around, my grandmother and I, from now on, the two sides of the world.
From now on, the grave is your appearance, how unacceptable a fact. The hunchback's grave will always accept the affection of the weeds to it. And I come every year, I do not know how many times I can still come, life is unpredictable, after a few decades, we really break no news!
Tear-jerking prose grandmother (three)
Grandma's good to me, is never written. So let's just focus on one. The first thing I want to say is that I'm not going to be able to do anything about it, but I'm going to be able to do something about it. Meng mother three relocation? Although I can't be Mengzi, Grandma and Mengmu are of the same mind, wanting me to be good. For the sake of my studies, you moved four times in the past ten years from the age of seventy-one to the age of eighty, spanning two provinces. Meng's mother moved three times when she was in her prime, and she was able to move well, but you were more than seventy years old when you completed these huge moving projects. It is not only the tediousness of the moving process, but also the changes in the surrounding environment and the neighborhood brought about by each move, as well as the procedures for buying and selling houses and the custom of choosing the auspicious time of the day and class have to be dealt with, which is how difficult it is for an old man! Every time I think of this, I am even more pained, these seven years, I am obsessed with writing "Nine Songs of the Soul", the grandmother, wife and son are cool aside. The Nine Songs of the Soul went from a few hundred lines to 20,000 lines and then to 40,000 lines, one draft, two drafts, three drafts, non-stop, day and night. It was really a self-mutilating writing, until I vomited blood. It was a crazy writing, just like a love affair with a deep sin, "Nine Songs of the Soul" was a great physical fatigue and spiritual ecstasy, but I also neglected the people around me who were close to me. Because of writing, I became an incompetent father, husband, and grandson. My existence was, in effect, a void. Balzac may be poison to him, Shelley may be a trap to you, and the me in writing may be grass to my loved ones.
Grandma's nagging is famous, many times I indulged in writing, inspiration breaks only to realize that grandma has been nagging herself aside memories of decades. The only thing that Grandma can bring her pleasure to is her memories of the time that has passed. I was like a ghost returning to the shrine in an instant. I looked at my grandmother, who was still talking to herself, and I felt guilty once again.
Grandma's dedication was unrewarding, and she never complained about my ? thin love? and? I'm not sure if I'm a good person or a good person.
My grandmother since I can not be compared to Meng mother, because I am not as great as Mencius. I'm not sure if I've ever been in a position to do that before. The first thing you need to do is to get your hands dirty. The first thing you need to do is to get your hands on a new pair of shoes or boots. The life of a man is to teach his son, and his ambition is to be in the green and purple. I'm not sure if you're going to be able to get the best out of me. Since ancient times, one person only. The feudal emperors of the mother of Meng repeatedly awarded posthumous, until the second year of Qianlong (1737) also awarded the mother of Meng as? Mrs. Duanfan Xuanxian of the State of Zhujiang? That was because the feudal rulers tried their best to mold Meng into an idol that suited their needs. Idolize her. My grandmother, however, is greater than the mother of Meng in my mind, and this is also common sense.
My first home was in a remote township in northwestern Guangdong, where I was born, and that was my hometown. Grandma was at the corner of the town to support a deep-fried stall to earn money to support the family. As I grew older, I gradually realized the grandmother's hard life, every day before dawn, climbed up and powder, a ball of powder eight or nine pounds, the rubbing force to be a seventy or eighty year old man to complete, said how tired is not a personal experience can not be appreciated. And this dozens of pounds of glutinous rice flour is by the grandmother with a stone mill a scoop scoop grinding out. Speaking of stone grinding, now many people do not know what play, stone grinding is composed of two short cylindrical stones of the same size and grinding disk, set up in the wooden blanks made of platform, grinding disk stacked on the mill under the fan (not moving the disk) and on the fan (rotating disk). The contact surface of the two fans of the mill are burined with neatly arranged grinding teeth, glutinous rice from the upper hole into the middle of the two layers, along the texture of the outward movement, in the rolling over the two levels when crushed, forming a water powder. There is an umbilical cord between the two mills to prevent the upper fan from falling off the lower fan as it rotates. The grinding hand is suspended from a beam, and the creaking sound of the grinding disk and the disk when pulling the grinding hand is like an accompaniment; it takes more than an hour to pull half a bucket of glutinous rice. I stood on a bench and poured rice into the hole with a ladle. The watery glutinous rice paste had to be poured into a cloth bag and pressed dry. All of these processes were very strenuous, so my grandmother sweated profusely every time. Grandma made mochi is really delicious, I'm a little slut cute eat, grandma made mochi is not the yellow sugar plate into the pot with water to boil into a thick liquid to go and powder, but the yellow sugar plate directly into the frying pan, frying into a paste of sugar dipped in the half-cooked mochi on the dough, and then control the fire fried mochi sugar coating crispy and soft on the inside. Because of the grandmother to do the oil patties golden color, skin round shiny, tender and sweet, known far and wide, can also become the town's most representative of one of the local flavor snacks, so the township did not apologize for her old unhygienic and so on, the business is quite good.
Grandma earns money and spends it on me. I was four or five years old when I began to contact the "Romance of the Three Kingdoms", "Water Margin", "Journey to the West", that is, of course? I was four or five years old when I began to contact the Romance of the Three Kingdoms, Water Margin and Journey to the West. and other small books, counting, that era I have "Railway Guerrillas" 10 books, "Lin Hai Xue Yuan" 6 books, "Water Margin", "Romance of the Three Kingdoms" 60 books, "Journey to the West" 50 books, "San Mao Wandering" 10 books, "Gourd Brothers" 6 books? A book is equivalent to the price of 3 catties of rice, my three small books is how many quintals of rice ah! In those days, there was no Internet, TV in the whole town and not a few families have it, comic books is the only spiritual food I had at that time. Although I was too young to read a lot of words, but I still found it fun, my childhood was outrageously brilliant! Although these comic books were repeatedly relocated and lost, and it is now rumored on the Internet that these comic books have been collected for thousands of dollars a piece, the wealth and happiness I received at that time was by no means something that collectors could buy with money. Because of that time to play too many books, I was six years old, I learned a simple white drawing, a school has become the most important protagonist of the June 1 Children's Day school wall newspaper. I was able to learn how to do this at the age of six, and once I was in school, I was the most important character in the school wall newspaper on June 1st.
After that, I moved to a town in Guangxi, where my Cantonese accent was corrected.
Then Grandma moved several times in a few years because of my studies. The driver refused to help transport the coffins, and every time she moved, she had to sell the coffins, and then buy and sell the coffins again. This should be how to toss an old man's heart. After the funeral reform, can not be buried, grandmother's coffin is still empty to stay in the countryside that empty old house, into rotten wood. And grandma with me to the south drifted until after the coffin still does not belong to her, incompetent I can not afford to buy a wooden coffin in this city to her, in this life, I owe grandma a coffin. In this life, I can no longer repay a coffin to grandma is I lose the face of this society is I the face of this country, I live, I'm poor, I'm muddled, hiking heart of the coffin hanging in the air will also let the lead cloud general pressure on me, think of it can not help but tears. The lack of a coffin, for a dead person has no way to count, even the world is left behind, and what not to put down, and the living on their own dead relatives lack of a coffin itself has an almost pathological sensitivity, grandmother gave me to pay so much, and I, and even the last coffin also save, how can I be ashamed of it.
Grandma has played out a modern version of her story for me? The first time I saw this, I was able to see the woman's face, and I was able to see her. The first thing I'd like to say is that I'm not sure how much I'm going to be able to do with this. The first is to be a good example of this.
Tear-jerking prose grandmother (four)
Grandma, so simple, habitually doing something she thinks is very simple.
A million more words will not add anything to her glorious image?
After all these years, I have not written a single poem in her honor, and I know that I would have been unable to do so.
The crowds of people, the noise of the city, the world is so lively and prosperous, but people are still lonely. Just like the grandmother from the countryside to the city as lonely, sitting at a certain intersection on a piece of stone counting the traffic that lonely, without the grandmother of the world I often look at a certain intersection in a trance? Expecting her to suddenly appear? That hunchbacked old woman, that gray-haired old woman, I am aligned with these lonely figures to the illusion of my grandmother!
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