Zhou Ji about Tomb-Sweeping Day

The first time I met the bamboo forest, I was in a clear fog.

Great-grandfather's grave is in the deep mountains, and it takes a long mountain road to worship. In the early morning, it was foggy all over the sky, and the scenery a few meters away was very vague. It makes sense to choose this time to go out, because today I will go to several hills to worship my ancestors. I only remember that in the morning, my father walked behind with sacrifices, and I skipped in front, like a caged bird. I still seem to be humming, maybe.

The mountain road winds and stretches, and weeds grow to my chest. We crossed fields, bypassed streams, climbed steep slopes, climbed several hills, and finally came to a canyon. Father shouted softly, "Don't run too fast, there are bamboo forests ahead." I answered, but I kept running into the canyon. Father shook his head at the back and smiled slightly. He knows that I like bamboo very much.

Close the door, close the door. There was a rustling sound in the mountain wind, and I finally saw the bamboo forest around the corner. The green tide has taken root in my life since then and can never be erased.

The leaves above the bamboo forest jump and fall with the wind, making a chilling sound, just like a green torrent, all the leaves are heading in one direction. The slender and green leaves, like boats in the rapids, are advancing rapidly. Standing among thousands of bamboos, I only feel that I have been conquered by green. Tall bamboo soars at the top of the canyon, covering the sky and playing with white clouds. Small bamboos, just emerging from the ground, are as big as my fingers, and clusters of tiny boats splash on the branches and join the struggle in the fog. The shock of green is overwhelming, and thousands of emeralds are swaying in front of me. I stroked bamboo, big and small, and walked around the forest, only feeling that everything was so wonderful.

Father put down the sacrifice on his shoulder and stood in the forest, also a little lost in thought.

There is a clear birdsong in the forest. It's tits, jumping on the green branches and enjoying the breath of heaven and earth. The gurgling sound is a clear spring seeping out of a crack in the rock, as clear as jade. Cold fog seeps water droplets on the bamboo, and some slip down the bamboo seams, leaving traces of streams flowing; Some swayed from the tip of the blade a few times, then swung away playfully and plunged to the ground like a meteor.

Later, perhaps the first ray of sunshine that penetrated the fog in the forest awakened my father. He cut off a thumb-sized bamboo with a small knife and handed it to me. Patted my little head and shouted, "Come on, we still have a lot to go." Maybe he is young, or maybe he is not deep enough for his ancestors. The barren hills and solitary graves always make me feel gloomy. If my father is not around, I can assure you that I will cry. That year, Tomb-Sweeping Day did not leave too many memories about its ancestors, but always remembered the bamboo forest, the green and ethereal world. I also remember the bamboo cut by my father for me, the bamboo cut into a flute on a sunny night, and the bamboo blown on my father's lips. That melodious and deep voice runs through my whole childhood and my whole life.

Yes, and then I grew up. I have read many poems about bamboo, such as "There are three or two peach blossoms outside the bamboo, and there are duck prophets in the spring water heating." Is it Su Shi's? I read that "the sound of bamboo calls the washerwoman to return, and the lotus leaves are collected in front of the fishing boat." This is Wang Wei's. I have read many books and seen many people draw bamboo, such as Zheng Banqiao's, but I always feel lost. There is no poem in that ethereal world, and no brush can replace it. Yes, at least in my heart.