Prose poems written by my father

"I graduated from primary school," my father said after his predecessors, like a famous university graduate. Looking at the lines of laughter crawling out of my father's eyes, I realized that happiness, big or small, is always so strikingly similar.

There are thousands of roads in life, that is to say, only one of others belongs to us. Once on the road, time will push and shove behind you and me, pushing you forward without tenderness, regardless of Qian Shan's vast waters and ravines. Although dad can read, once his hands are glued to the old steward, he can only be brothers with the mountains in northern Shaanxi for life.

"Go to the movies at night!" Feng Waer and Xiao Ming shouted to me on the bank of their own alkali across the river, followed by the red faded window grilles posted last year. After watching the movie, I dreamed of looking for the white snake in the clouds at night in Haiti, as if I were Xu Xian instead of Xu Xian. I woke up in a hurry, but I didn't see the ghost in white, only my father and his wife under the kerosene lamp.

"Tomorrow, I'll borrow some white flour from the nihilist home ..." My father said with his rough thumb pressing the freshly lit cigarette in the hookah. During the day, Mody threw the corn dumplings into the red paint plate, and his father's palm, the size of a cattail leaf fan, fell on his half-pulled ass with Mody's action. But at night, somehow it started to burn. My father didn't dare to walk at night. He asked a village doctor five miles away to give him an injection of Ai Hu to reduce his fever and another injection of penicillin to reduce inflammation.

Just like Sun Shaoping, my father's greatest ideal is to let his family eat steamed bread with white flour. Brother Yao is ill and can't eat white steamed buns. He can only borrow some white flour. It's also strange to feel afraid of having a fever. As long as my mother makes some egg noodle soup, we will be sure to be good, as if a mouthful of white flour is a thousand-year-old ginseng and a thousand-year-old Polygonum multiflorum.

Just as a man can never understand the pain of a woman giving birth, I didn't know his struggle when my father borrowed white flour until I asked for it myself.

At first, my father had nothing to say, but he made a draft by heart and looked for the most suitable opportunity and the best vocabulary by the way. Although my father didn't know the story of "the monk knocking on the moon door", in order to hit the nail on the head and achieve success, he carefully scrutinized his own words like a poet in the Tang Dynasty.

First, smoke a pot of cigarettes with my neighbor's uncle and discuss the growth of crops. Unexpectedly, the neighbor's uncle spoke first:

"Want to borrow your Niu Gengdi tomorrow? ! "Talking uncle is like his father's piracy, exactly the same anxiety and embarrassment. He didn't even look at his father. He knows that there is a lot of land left in my house, and whoever takes advantage of the moisture in early spring to compete for seeds will be able to fight three or five more times.

My father promised as soon as he spoke, and then conveniently said that he wanted to borrow some white flour. He is full of hope for the completion of this matter.

Neighbor uncle shouted: mom, is there any white flour ... but the hopeful father ended up with a different fate-the last bowl of white flour in neighbor uncle's house was steamed with white corn flour for the old mother for a week-double-sided steamed bread.

Father smiled wryly, his mouth was "nothing" and his face was disappointed. It's as helpless as catching a fish and letting it run into the water. Out of the door, he couldn't help sighing at the rising moon. In response, the fifteenth full moon watched him walk into another neighbor's house.

Like all children, Mody will be fine as soon as he drinks noodle soup. The bowl of flour for cooking was borrowed by his father after knocking on the door three times.

This is the past we talked about when we grew up. It is like a prose poem written by my father with his life. The difficulties, entanglements, sadness, disappointment, excitement and satisfaction that jumped out of it made my father's readers-grown children chew with tears all their lives.

Just like a weightlifter, every time a child is added to his father's arms, he will gain a piece of weight, which will last for 20 years until he can't move any more with eight children in his arms. In fact, he challenges the limit every day, and the next day he can always raise a new life that is a few dollars heavier than yesterday.

When someone comes home from work to carry a small bundle of firewood, his father always tries to fill his back with firewood and bend his back. From the back, my father at this time is like a huge bundle of firewood. After dinner, I sat down and put bundles of green corn stalks into the hay cutter. My father cleaned the big hay cutter, then raised his knife and waited anxiously for my next straw ... I looked at my father's strong arm exposed from behind the coarse cloth and felt that he was as practical as the opposite Huangtushan, as if he would never get old, and his father would always give people a sense of security.

At noon, parents who do heavy work don't go home. The kettle heated by the sun smells of plastic as soon as it is opened. Father took a sip and then habitually wiped the spout with his hand. He is worried that his mother will get dirty. Mother smiled and silently laughed at herself: it is better not to wipe the hands full of dirt.

Many years later, the dry aunt in Houcun spoke my mind-your father didn't come home at noon and ate dry steamed bread with your mother. I have met them, but I take it for granted. My dry aunt rhymes with the three words added to this sentence-"poor thing" suddenly makes my feelings fall. I felt sorry for it for a long time. Sometimes, no matter how much our loved ones pay, we take it for granted. Only when the bystanders say it clearly can we feel the pain. In front of their relatives, most people are not only obsessed with the authorities, but also stupid.

I forgot a lot of things. Many things are unforgettable, especially those engraved in the bones.

A round wooden stick was erected on the stone garden. A wooden bowl was placed on the stick, and a round ink bottle was placed in the middle. The middle of the bottle cap was drilled open, exposing the cotton core soaked in kerosene. Children's entertainment every day is to scramble for lights, and they also fight for it.

When I was in middle school, I had already trimmed a moustache on my lips. It looked like velvet, not velvet, half black and half black. In the evening, my father who slept next to me put his hand into my bed and touched my penis routinely and habitually. But I obviously surprised him, and he never did that again.

I walk fifteen miles home from school every weekend and "study hard" at home every night. When pouring kerosene, I was not sure. The spilled kerosene flowed out of the wooden bowl and down the lamppost. I am always so stupid that I can't change it in my life. Light a lamp with a lighter and it catches fire. The flame immediately turned into a salamander and fell with a whoosh. At a loss, I looked at the porcelain stupidly, and a pair of big hands reached out and I was shocked to put out the fire.

Peeing in the middle of the night, I heard my father hissing in pain, like a wounded snake.

"Does it hurt that much?" I can't figure it out in my mind. I fell asleep without saying anything, without even looking at my father, let alone comforting words. Many years later, my calf was burned. I didn't understand the kind of pain that burns to my heart and hurts to my bone marrow. Sometimes I just laugh when it hurts.

In the face of danger, a father, even a moth, dares to jump on the blazing fire. It's a pity that the burned father can only heal himself, because his children are stupid enough.

Father likes writing prose poems on the earth very much. These prose poems, like paintings, hang everywhere in the four seasons.

In winter, it snows in the north.

There seems to be something wrong with this scene. Oh, just make it up to your dad. He picked up the dung basket and stepped on a string of the latest footprints, and even the stepped snow was amused.

Besides, no one likes such a diligent person. Father has a famous saying that "the suffering people (so-called farmers in northern Shaanxi dialect) have no winter". This sentence sounds like prose poetry at first glance, but there is a philosophy of "tired and happy" when you feel it carefully.

Carrying a dung basket, a bare pole shook the snow all over the floor. After the snow, Ji's father was sharp-eyed and couldn't help but open his mouth and shout and sing. The rich shooting range scared several pheasants to flap their wings and fly away, leaving only three toes in chaos.

"People who suffer have no leisure" (dad's quotation), even in winter.

One winter, my father was dealing with the ugliest fertilizer, such as cow dung like black discus and sheep dung like black beans ... It was smelly and special. But once all the crops are fertilized, dad can plant a spring.

Before and after Grain Rain, almost all the land was loose and soft, like crushed corn dumplings. The cow bounced back and forth along the furrow and was very patient. Dad's share is like a piece of paper pulp, making waves on the yellow land like the sea. The land sprinkled with chemical fertilizer was ploughed with deep waves, just like writing an idyll of hope.

Summer is the most beautiful season. The high and low crops that are dripping green indicate a bumper harvest this year. Wheat that has been green for a winter has regained the color of loess, which is a sign of maturity. Rolling up his sleeves, dad didn't dare to stop, for fear of rain and missing the harvest day. Standing on the head of Mailang, my father is like a child, so happy that he grinds the ears of wheat into his mouth and chews out the fragrance-this year, the dolls can eat white flour every day again.

When I came back from picking a small yellow flower in the mountains, it was the most colorful autumn in northern Shaanxi. Dad wants to put the small yellow flowers in the grain depot to prevent insects from biting. He said that the harvest is round, soybeans are small and round, apples are big and round, and pumpkins are like smiling faces. I think autumn is also round, round mountains, round land and round smiling faces.

When my father sent dung through the snow again, I knew that he had finished writing a prose poem of the four seasons. Not very elegant, but very touching. Not so beautiful, but it's true.

Dad loves the land, not because it is beautiful, nor because it is changeable, but because he is the land itself-simple and practical, simple and honest, kind. Land is like a piece of manuscript paper. Dad has been writing all his life, but his favorite works are outside the land. Those are his eight children.

When a work is infused with goodwill and philosophy, no matter how low it is, it is worth having. My father's eight children are like eight melons raised by my father. They are kind, honest, open-minded and diligent, which is also the most wonderful part of my father's prose poems.

Therefore, when my father boasted that "I graduated from primary school", he always had a smile on his face and said "By the way"-

"My eight dolls ..."