Last night the wind climbed on my window, how it sounded like dry branches scratching the glass window one by one. Later, the wind left the window and danced under it. The sound was terrifying, at times exciting and at times dull. I subconsciously pulled up the corner of the blanket to cover my head, and thought, Nidu shaman put the sacred clothes and drums on the body, in order to find whose soul tirelessly rotating and jumping, but also so.
More worried about the hawthorn tree, hawthorn fruit should have been collected. I've been saying that I'll go back to Frostbite for two more days, and I don't want to start this wind for no reason.
After a whole night of whistling, the wind is tired, early in the morning, it put up the sleeves, sigh a few times away.
After a night of scraping and sweeping the village streets, like an overburdened woman's pale and cold face, and scantily swept up a glance at you, do not cater to you, and do not pay attention to anyone. Some people have finished the fall, some people are still in the end, some people put the corn in their own street door, and most of them are tuned in the village square.
Turning around the theater, I saw a whitewashed mud wall surrounded by hawthorn trees, with branches spreading outside the wall. I'm not sure how much I'm going to be able to get out of this one, but I'm going to be able to get out of this one. I also see clearly, hawthorn tree to the dome of the sky straight to the sky of a few branches of the top of the tree is still hanging a few strings of fruit, the tree leaves are from the green to yellow, from yellow to red, a tree of dense branches and leaves is clearly very thin.
These are the first time I've ever seen a woman in the world who has been in the world for a long time, and I've never seen her in the world for a long time. The street is so clean that you can hardly see a single piece of grass, bean stalks and pods, and of course, you can't see hawthorn tree leaves and hawthorn berries. Walk a few more steps, suddenly, in front of the eyes of a mess, the heart shrinks a little. The hawthorn berries are deflated, one by one on the street, and when you look at them, they look like countless drops of blood stains.
This is a low-lying area on the street, rainy season, here stagnant a pool of rainwater. A rainy day, there are children wearing straw hats or draped on the back of a piece of plastic, to the corner of the corner to play the dike flooding game, they divided this low-lying area into several small pieces, each building their own embankment. When they were building the embankment, they were so quiet that sometimes they couldn't hear any sound for a long time and wondered if they had left, and then suddenly they came out with a shout. Sometimes I heard a child suddenly crying very sadly, and when I went to the gate with my umbrella, I saw a small child wiping his tears with his little hands covered with sludge. As he cried and mended his dam, his other little hand was extra busy. The other children first stood on the side to watch him cry, and then squatted down, taking stones, holding silt, and helping him to plug the gap with their hands and feet.
After the snow fell, the melted snow water gathered together again, and slowly accumulated into a large piece of ice. When my brother and nephew were small, they took skateboards with their buddies and put them on the ice, and even though they couldn't have all the fun, the scene was still quite lively. With me the same age of the girl, and I hold hands side by side walking in the street, see the ice, she thump ran over, turned sideways to the ice, a leap, "swish" on the slide over. I wouldn't have dared or never tried it. When I think about it now, I am still envious. It turns out that there are some things you can't achieve in your lifetime. That girl when I was still studying she married, occasionally met, her silver bell laughter from the street can turn into the end of the alley. One day she left her family behind and was never heard from again, even the death of her parents didn't stir her back. Some people say that she was chasing after love.
A few years ago, the street rectification, new and old several streets all cement hardening, here 偱 with the street trend, still low-lying areas. I squatted down, broken hawthorn berries have lost moisture, cracked part of the crimson red, almost close to the outer skin. I knew that they had ripened the moment they fell. On what day did they fall? On the eve of the White Dew Festival, or after the autumn wind, or on the day of the cold dew? Did they fall in company in droves? Or did they fall a few tonight, and a few tomorrow morning, and after a long period of time, they gathered together in this piece? They are dry but not withered, in addition to the surface of a shallow layer of dust, and slightly wrapped in some of the grain chaff. The same as the tree hawthorn berries, they are still so warm red, fresh.
No one is willing to intentionally step on the shattered life, must be in the dim dark night or mist in the early morning, footsteps in a hurry crop people inadvertently stepped on a foot, or sprayed with light blue smoke of agricultural vehicles carrying a full pocket of crops in the state of unknowingly rolled over. When I realized something was wrong, I thought to myself, "Did I step on the hawthorn or crush it? I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to do that, but I'm going to be able to do it, and I'm going to be able to do it.
I can almost imagine the scene of the first ripe hawthorn berries gradually falling down - two small clear throat from his family hutong out, standing hutong mouth look around, two hands into his pants pocket toward the west, two hawthorn blocked in front of his face, the two small leaned over to pinch up, blowing the dust on the top, and took a bite. He turned his head to look at the iron lock hanging on the door of my mother's street, probably, in that moment, in the past, stood on the gate shouting at him to eat the mother in his heart swayed twice, he turned back and chewed the hawthorn to the west.
Junior mother with an apron, hands rolled up in the apron, windy and hasty turn across the stage, she is to see the opportunity to go to take care of her several single brothers to go, the home stove is still placed on the dishes that have not been washed out
to it. The first time I saw a few hawthorn berries bouncing off the fence at my mom's house, she picked them up and put them on her apron, and looked up at the hawthorn tree: it was time for the kids to come back and pack up the hawthorns. The sycamore leaves in the yard of her house fell another layer, Xiao San his big in the yard sweeping sycamore leaves, sycamore leaves in the red hawthorn leaves, he leaned on the broom towards the west to see, in front of the eye of his family's west house, west house in front of a pear tree, he did not see my mom's yard hawthorn tree. The first time I saw this, I was in the middle of a long journey, and I was so happy to see that I was able to get to know you.
In the past, when my mom saw the hawthorn berries turning red, she greeted us and came back to collect the hawthorns, and she couldn't bear to see a single hawthorn falling on the ground. The first time I saw this, I was so happy to see you, and I was so happy to see you. Waiting for the frost, the pale empty branches remain a few, reach over and pick it, the fruit from the inside to the outside, the same color, put in the mouth, it became sweet and smooth and moist. Then, always complain to my mom a few words: what kind of hurry it, after the frost only ripe it.
No one is urging to collect the hawthorns, so I thought I would wait for the frost and then go back to collect them.
The wind was so strong last night that in the morning it blew us back from all corners.
When I opened the door to the courtyard, the yellow and green leaves overlapped and covered the stone courtyard, and the hawthorn berries were lying on the fallen leaves. In the past years, my mom cleaned up the yard and the street, waiting for us to step in the door, she put the sacks already prepared in the yard and on the street, and then took out the sheets and curtains, for fear of hurting and damaging the hawthorn berries.
Right now, are the masterpiece of the wind, laying presented in order. It first shouted down the leaves, laid tight, and then shook the branches to let the fruit fall on the leaves. This is not the frantic hissing I heard last night, it is clearly a deep elder, silent and silent to do what needs to be done in order to organize.
And the street is uncovered, the leaves and hawthorn berries are running where to hide from the wind and cold? The branches and vines sticking out of the wall are bumping into the naughty wind, which looks like a group of children holding long poles, stirring up some trouble among the branches and scrambling to collect the spoils of war and fleeing like a man.
My brother approached the hawthorn tree on tiptoe, and his hands just rested on the tree, and the remaining fruit on the branches fell down. Someone outside the courtyard wall spoke, saying that the hawthorn berries blocked their way. My brother did not think about a movement, the street has been sprinkled with fruit. Two people stood in the corner of the neighbor's house on the opposite side of the street, one squatted down and picked up a hawthorn, blowing and rubbing the palm of the hand twice, bite, said: not sour, quite delicious. Another person also picked up a few. When they saw me, they said they didn't dare to walk over, afraid of stepping on the hawthorn. There is a vehicle sound on the other side of the stage, not seeing the car, the sound came first. Two people hurried back together to stop the vehicle that was about to come over, and when I took the broom and came out, an agricultural vehicle was stopped at the corner. I put the hawthorn berries collected in the wall, to give them a way out.
Another fruit snapped and fell, and the passing cat stepped down to stick to the foot of the wall, his tail blowing up thick, his two ears close to the top of his head pursed to the back of his head, like two dry poplar leaves. I stopped the broom in my hand to try not to make any noise, the cat to see a break a smoke into a narrow alley.
My younger brother so unobtrusively hand over a tree pole, the fruit of the branch tops mostly fell down, my mother prepared sacks, cloth sheets, curtains did not have the time to come in handy. I'm not sure how much I'm going to be able to get out of this, but I'm going to be able to get out of this, and I'm going to be able to get out of this, and I'm going to be able to get out of it.
Someone at the east end of the village shouted my siblings' names a few times, and then came this way: I'm back, and the hawthorns have all fallen. The two of them are holding their own grandchildren. They often came to my mom's door to sit, and I often called them sister-in-law. They had prepared food bags and came over to pick up some hawthorn berries. They are talking about my mom, saying that every year when the hawthorns come down, my mom goes from house to house to give them a break.
One sister-in-law sat on the stone bar in front of my mom's street, holding two children, while the other sister-in-law picked up hawthorn. The other sister-in-law picked up the hawthorns. A few bags were filled with food, and the sister-in-law who sat at the door shouted: "Enough, enough, less loaded, enough to eat. You load your own, don't need to give me, I have already picked up some in the morning. She told me that when she woke up early, she saw hawthorn rolling everywhere, and it was a pity that she didn't pack it up, so she picked it up and went home. She created her own set of hawthorn fruit eating method: after cleaning the fruit, no need to pluck out the nucleus to, white sugar brown sugar water mix, put on the fire slightly boiled, closed into the altar, when you want to eat, take a few grains out, very refreshing. Sitting on her knees of the two children at first recognized, quietly looking at the things in front of them, slowly, restless, began to cry. They left with pleasantries, and each picked up their grandchildren, carrying hawthorn berries in their hands.
Between the cracks of the slate on top of the coal bin, under the unused tiles on the chicken nest, there are hawthorn berries hiding. The hawthorn tree grew between the coal barn and the chicken coop, and when the tree grew up, the whole body of the tree tilted toward the yard, leaning against a large stone at the root of the tree, with one end of the stone resting on the chicken coop and the other on the coal barn, and the roots of the tree were circled in the cracks, and the leaves and hawthorn berries filled up the cracks. I held the tree and grabbed a handful of them, a few brainless granny worms were running around in the palm of my hand, and there was also a long-legged spider, which was probably crippled by my scratching one of its legs, and it was looking for a way out between the cracks of my fingers. I raised my hand, the hawthorn berries scattered far away, and then I looked at my hand, the granny worms hugged into a ball and squeezed in the palm of my hand, but I didn't know where the thin-legged spider had gone. I slowly took off my gloves and slammed them out, then walked over and turned them over with my toes, the granny worms were gone, I didn't know where they had gone to hide. Little did they know that while they were busy hiding, I nearly jumped out of my skin at them too. There are so many fruits in the crevice, I probed a few times to look at them, not daring to go back to catch them out.
There is a white porcelain bowl next to the chicken nest, dusty, open a few mouth. At the bottom of the bowl there are five fruits, like who specialize in the end of the arrangement into that way, they are like a dusty red plum blossom, after a few displacement finally found a safe place to live. I pinched them one by one and put them in my hand. A sound of music drifted in through the wall, a melodious tune, through the sadness. Listening sideways, I only heard a string of lyrics at the end of the "waiting for you", I stood up, still do not hear very true, the song along the street to the east. Suddenly, the song stopped and the sound of hawking started. The sound of hawking in the village entrance back and forth, and so back to my mom's front door, the song resumed, mournful and somber. I stopped working and listened carefully, but I could only hear the words "waiting for you" after a string of lyrics. I don't know what kind of song it was, but I had never heard it before. At first, I thought it was the song recorded by the loudspeaker held by the cargo man, and when he passed the gate and walked to the hawthorn tree outside the fence, the song sank a few times and then paused a few times, was it picking up a few hawthorns outside the fence with his head down? Then, this deep melancholy song is from the cargo man himself. What song is it? Is it "waiting for you under the hawthorn tree"?
In the morning after I entered the village, the car turned into the five Temple, the village office in front of a long row of shelves, shelves set up a variety of goods, a man and a woman squatting in the square opposite, face to face, sleeve hand in the sun, the sunlight is light, lazy. I thought, these two people focus on their own warmth, why not put the shelves on the side of the sunrise.
I don't know where to come from the goods, in previous years this time Fu lock over, he put the shelves in the square at the sunrise, sitting next to his own shelves. And after many years, Fu lock shelves sitting next to a woman, Fu lock standing to greet customers. Occasionally, when Fu lock can not take care of the time, the woman came over to take care of care, but rarely speak. The woman was abandoned by her husband's family, as if depressed, often have some irrational behavior and speech, living with the Fu locks gradually improved.
Fu lock from a young man began to do small business, he was carrying a parcel to the villages and villages, half of the life of celibacy. After more women around, see him again, shelves open a long slip. Where the temple singing, Fu Lock's electric tricycle, carrying goods sitting on the woman.
Fu lock died last winter. At first, said Fu lock had a car accident, I have not been able to link Fu lock with the bloody scene. Not long before the incident, I saw Fu lock in a place of white ceremony, he walked far away from the crowd. I wondered how I could see him at first glance, like a close-up in a movie, in the bustling crowd, I noticed his white thinning hair and slightly hunched back. At that moment, the back of the Fu locks for no reason left me a stumbling impression, looking at his back for a while, the heart also weighed a few weighing, the Fu locks are also so with the decline, old.
Such a weak person and car accident stirred together, I do not know why, the heart always feel not fall endure.
A few days later, I heard that the death of Fu lock has nothing to do with the car accident, he was walking on the side of the highway at the entrance of the village, he fell down and died. The first time I saw the car, I saw the car, but I didn't know what to expect. As if I had expected this, I was relieved.
However, the death of Fu Lock is still haunted for some time. The first time I saw a car, I saw a car, I saw a car, I saw a car, I saw a car. This statement makes me think of the Fu lock before the crowd shaking back, that situation, at any time there is the possibility of falling down.
Fu lock passed away, Fu lock woman how to go, I have no idea. The woman has children, but almost no contact. After the accident, the woman's children once came over to inquire about the car accident. After that, the woman might have stayed at the hut to keep her company. If that is the case, in addition to the woman, there should be a pile of fake money in the hut. Fake money than the woman to Fu lock home a few years earlier, it is Fu lock rush white dew will go to the stall, with dozens of pieces of imitation leather shoulders for back, should also be neatly clamped in the money clip, was Fu lock pressed in the bottom of the package, collected in the innermost layer of the cabinet.
Hawthorn berries put away, the leaves let it spread in the yard. The gate was padlocked and we left the yard.
Passing by Wudaomiao Temple, there are many people standing in front of a long line of shelves. The many people who saw my brother and sister, almost always the same two words: back to collect hawthorn, right? It's been a long time since I've had a chance to collect them. ......
Your mom is gone, and I don't see you coming back anymore. It's noon, come on, let's go to the house and have dinner before we go ......
The lorryman and his wife are busy taking care of it, and his trumpet is resting on the shelf.
(After a while, when I met people in the village, I always mentioned my mom's family's hawthorn. Some of them ask anxiously when they meet, "Did you go back to pack up the hawthorns? Some would greet her and leave, but then, as if they suddenly remembered something, they would turn around and ask, "Have you gone back to collect the hawthorns yet?" Others said, "I passed by your mom's door one day, saw no hawthorn on the tree, and thought that I didn't know which child had come back to collect it, but I didn't see anyone."
After a period of time, no matter where you go, you can hear "...... wait for you" that song, I intentionally went to check, is "I wait for you in the Cocoa Tohai", there is no "I wait for you under the hawthorn tree" like the song.)
Author profile, Zheng Yanfang, Shanxi Jinzhong and Shun people, after 70, Jinzhong Writers Association members, members of the Western Prose Society, published prose collection "wind traveling strangers".