The smoke is like a rope, I am at this end, and my hometown is at the other end. The smoke is like the tears in the corners of my mother's eyes. Through the transparency, I can see her old age. The smoke is like the wrinkles on my father's face, and I can feel his heart against it.
In the early morning, the smoke from the kitchen is the clarion call to wake up. I woke up the whole village with it. Pour water, turn on the fire, and cook the noodles. Before I left, I gently pushed the door of my parents' room and told them that I was leaving and the noodles in the pot were half-covered. Don't forget to reheat them after you get up. Then the parents got up, the neighbors got up, and the whole village woke up.
At noon, the smoke from the kitchen is a nap at home. Walking on the way home from school, I could see the smoke from my house in the distance. It popped up and rose up one after another. The aroma of the food whetted my appetite, and what followed was the most wonderful meal. After a full meal, everyone began to go their separate ways and busy around.
In the evening, the smoke from the kitchen is the destination of tiredness. I walked carelessly on the way home. On the field ridges, beside the docks, and along the paths, the villagers put away their hoes, rakes, and poles, and returned home exhausted one by one. Put down the farm tools, put down your schoolbag, change your clothes, and pick up your odds and ends. Then, the family gathered around the table, eating and chatting happily. Not afraid of time, not afraid of urging, sometimes very late, sometimes late at night. Finally go to bed and have a peaceful sleep.
The smoke in the wind is a girl, one, two, a group, two groups, meeting and surrounding each other, leaping in the air, dancing enchantingly, up or down, left or right , either before or after. No matter where you go, you can see her beauty. She is never shy and never hides her face. You can see her dancing anytime and anywhere as long as you want. The smoke in the rain is a warrior, weak but strong, soft but hard. Not afraid of being pulled by thin cotton, not afraid of being beaten by beans, not afraid of being ravaged by the downpour. He greets every moment of life with strength and releases his warmth and passion. He accepts every ruthless moment with a smile and opens up his tolerance and generosity. Holding the rain in one's arms, it turned into mist, covering the entire village. Finally, it wanders in the air and floats into the air, forming an intoxicating fairyland. The smoke in the snow is a mother. The cold can't cover her enthusiasm, and the snow can't stop her tenderness. Little by little, her love rose from the stove, rushed out of the chimney, and broke through the roof. No matter how thick the snow was, it could not contain the emotion in my heart. It slowly began to melt bit by bit, and eventually turned into tears flowing rapidly along the eaves. Soon, the entire roof returned to its former glory.
The smoke during the day is a bit transparent, and together with the clouds, it is difficult for you to see her face clearly. It's long, straight into the sky, and you can't see the edge at a glance. The smoke from the kitchen at night is still black no matter how white it is. You can't see it no matter how hard you try. It likes to hide and play hide-and-seek games with you. Only by following the smell of smoke will you know it exists. One by one, they sneaked up to the sky in the dark. You can't find any trace of it no matter how hard you look.
In the countryside, every household has a very long, square or round chimney that protrudes from the roof. In order to cope with rain, some will use tiles, bricks or iron hats to partially cover them.
Children in rural areas have to cook after school or during holidays, especially during holidays. Several friends play together, do homework together, and cook together. The stronger the fire in the stove, the greater the smoke. People often like to light a fire and rush outside to see the smoke. Everyone agreed to compete with each other to see whose smoke emitted more, longer and longer. Whoever takes the risk early will be diligent. Whoever braves it longer will have more food. Whoever smokes the most will add more firewood. After the smoke was over, everyone got together to play again. Waiting for parents to come back for dinner. From elementary school to junior high school, I cooked at home for a long time. Smoke has become my companion. Every time I see it, I always feel a sense of joy of success.
Different types of firewood produce different smoke. White, gray, green, and even black. Porridge, rice, noodles, stir-fry, steamed buns, soup. Different food, different firewood, different smoke.
After I left home to go to school, I had fewer opportunities to see smoke from cooking stoves. I can only be with it when I'm on vacation. Later, after working, I could never see it again.
I can only see it every time I go home and see my parents or grandmother sitting by the stove.
Today, the stove at home is still there, but my grandmother is gone and the smoke is gone. Every time I go home, I have to go to the balcony on the second floor. Look at your own chimney, your neighbor’s chimney, or even the whole village’s chimney. The chimneys stood tall and majestic, but no smoke came out. I know that sometimes it is just a decoration. Only in the twelfth lunar month or during weddings and weddings, it will proudly hold its head high and roar to the sky. At that time, it was difficult for me to see it.
Having been away from home for a long time, I have always been glad that the small village where I grew up is still there. The houses in the small village are still there, the kitchens are still there, and the chimneys are still there. Although it is rare to see smoke from cooking stoves occasionally, I am still very happy.
Because, as long as it is there. I will miss my hometown. And this kind of longing is all the time and everywhere.