My mother will always be 3 1 year old, and I am older than her.

Autumn rain is gurgling, and I am sitting under the window reading. The general philosophy talks about the wisdom of Taoism. Walking in the morning, I folded a rosemary by the roadside and put it in a bottle. Strong breath, hurtful smell, thoughts drifting away, thinking of people and things near and far.

My friend mentioned that my mother's anniversary is coming. She is busy and has not done many things yet. I really want to comfort, but I feel that what others say is futile. I feel very weak when I reply to a message. But I know that feeling too well.

Thirty years ago, my mother gave birth to me in Liu Jia town. It was not dystocia, but the doctor made a mistake. My mother died on the operating table. It is said that the doctor ran away for fear of sin. Later, I read and studied, and found a letter from my father in the drawer. He appealed to the relevant departments and demanded a just solution and compensation. Later, it still went away.

I can only accept my fate. This is my mother's life, my father's life, my life, the life of everyone involved.

I seldom think of my mother, but I can't help thinking of her every birthday.

More than 30 years have passed, and the hospital is still there. It has been renovated and the walls have been painted. Last summer, I walked alone in the town and walked to the hospital gate. I was impressed to see that the slogan on the roof was still the same: Learn from Bethune.

Is there a problem?

That's right. So I don't find it ironic.

Motherhood and death have always been taboo topics for family members and will not be mentioned for no reason. In the second and third grades of primary school, once the school had to fill out a form, in a column, grandparents were embarrassed about their parents' careers. The headmaster's neighbor happened to be nearby, so he said, just write a dead word. At that time, I first knew the word "death", which was as shocking as its loud pronunciation.

The sporadic auspicious impression of my mother comes from the patchwork of other people's words, and I also have my own imagination and understanding.

My grandparents gave birth to three children, four to be exact. The first one was a daughter, who fell ill at the age of eight or nine and died in her grandmother's arms. In this way, my mother became the boss, and there were uncles and aunts below.

When my grandfather was young, he pulled a rickshaw on the beach. When he pulled it, the situation changed and he was pulled into the Shanghai bus company. Although I am a small clerk, I have at least one work unit, and in those days, my work could be replaced by my children. How cheap.

It is said that it was originally for the boss, and the mother gave it to the younger brother. She has to take care of her parents at home. Grandpa is weak, and grandma has always been weak and relies heavily on her eldest daughter.

If my mother went to Shanghai to attend classes instead of my grandfather, she would not know my father, and there would be no me, and there would be no such words, and my uncle's life track would change accordingly. Therefore, fate does not matter whether it is good or bad. Everything that can't be explained rationally is blamed on fate.

As long as I can remember, Grandpa's "Glorious Retirement" card embedded in the glass frame has been placed on the counter in the main room. Now the portrait of grandpa is hung on the east wall, and the retirement certificate is still in its place. Every holiday and anniversary sacrifice, the family will carefully wipe it.

When my grandmother was alive, she would wear a sapphire headscarf in winter, which my mother bought for her that year. My grandmother told me that my mother is very good at being a person.

I hope my mother is hardworking, strong, considerate and even a little strong. Otherwise, how can she be a master at an early age? Lanhou, the widow next door, told me many times that your mother is very capable. When she was fourteen or fifteen, she went to work alone with a hoe on her back. I have also heard from other relatives that my mother is clever at everything, including clothes, shoes and hats. On one occasion, my grandmother was seldom calm for me: at that time, she saw people making clothes, stood by and watched, and when she came back, she could do it herself.

In the past, every cool summer, my family would rummage through the boxes on sunny days, unfold the old clothes one by one, and spread them on the bamboo curtain for exposure. Grandma showed me that this dress is your mother's and this pair of shoes is your mother's. Between words, sigh again and again. I didn't care at that time, and I didn't know much about sadness. Never owned or felt, so there is no pain to lose.

The winter before last, I suddenly remembered lilies, calamus and impatiens around the old house. When I was a child, I would dig out many books from the top of the three cabinets, including Selected Works of Mao, Biography of Literati, Qiong Yao's Romance Novel and so on. Later, when the old house was renovated, these books disappeared.

That night, I vaguely felt that these flowers and books had something to do with my mother. I hope they have something to do with mother. So I asked my uncle about it on WeChat. My uncle told me from memory that my grandfather used to work in Shanghai and my grandmother often went to Shanghai to see a doctor and recuperate. I gave it to my mother inside and out. In addition to farming, she has to take care of her uncle and aunt's studies. She is too thrifty to buy books. But those flowers and plants are planted by my mother.

1in the summer of 986, my uncle was 23 years old and was admitted to Shanghai TV University. In July, he took home leave and went back to his hometown. It was his happiest home leave. Where did he think that two months later, this was the most painful change he had ever encountered.

That summer, in my hometown, my uncle, who is good at painting, also created a meticulous painting for my mother, which is still treasured.

I'll ask my uncle to find out and show it to me when he is free. Probably too busy to remember, or for other reasons, my uncle hasn't sent it yet. I won't mention it again. Some words are enough once.

I don't think he doesn't know. I want to have a look.

Speaking of those flowers, what impressed me most was the yellow lily. It grows under the south window of the East House and clings to the wall. In July and August, it slowly grows small black fruits, and then blooms, one or two. Each flower is very big, because it is full and drooping, with a long core and pollen at the top. Every time I pass by the toilet, I will be careful to avoid pollen sticking to my clothes.

My uncle said that these flowers and plants will grow by themselves the next year after they are thanked. Yes, year after year, as long as I can remember, they have been there, opening and thanking themselves until the old house was renovated, pulled out and disappeared. I missed these flowers and plants, only to know that my mother planted them.

On New Year's Eve this year, we are going to dig out the portrait of mother from the box. The photo was wrapped in a crimson tweed blanket. My family is busy in the kitchen. I moved the small box above in advance, opened the big box cover and saw a dress covered on the blanket. In previous years, I also saw it. This year, I suddenly paid special attention, probably because no one was around.

This dress is lavender, and the stitches are childish and not thin. It's probably my mother's beginner's "work" Lavender fabric and childish workmanship remind me of the heart of my mother and girl. At that time, she should still be very young, seventeen or eighteen? Early twenties?

Looking at this dress, I suddenly felt an unprecedented, sudden, strange, natural and deepest intimacy. If time permits, I'd like to watch it for a while, but I don't want to be seen by my family.

I inherited my mother's blood, but not her character. I've always been all thumbs and I'm not interested in setting off fireworks for a living. Secular, I am stubborn, witty and smelly. I can't tell the scene, and sometimes I hurt others unconsciously.

One day in the shower, I observed my face when I was in contact with people-I was so stupid that I didn't know what to say when I was face to face. Afterwards, I recalled in my mind that every sentence had a wonderful response. I'm ashamed of this, and I'm afraid I can't go back to that scene and make the dialogue perfect again.

In this way, I thought of my mother from being immersed in love. I heard that when my mother was young, sometimes people got the upper hand in her conversation. When I came back, I thought about it and felt convinced by such a reply. She always wants to find an opportunity to make up her words and take back her reasons.

I'm a bit like my mother, but not much like her.

People who have never met will not appear in dreams. Freud's point of view, I got personal proof here. I never dreamed of my mother, but I dreamed of her portrait. In my dream, as in reality, it was placed in the west of the main cabinet.

Many years later, I realized that my mother was the victim of the family, and she seemed willing to sacrifice. Mother gave her job to her younger brother and decided to stay at home alone and take care of her parents, especially her mother. So, find a man who is willing to be adopted by his wife. I found my father, who was in his late thirties, because he was willing to be adopted by his wife and because he was a high school student-which was a bit rare at that time.

I heard that when my mother was alive, she often quarreled with her father and cried about it. This marriage is not happy.

On the first anniversary, I knew nothing about personnel. After the anniversaries of 10, 20, and 50 years, and the annual New Year's sacrifice, I was very afraid to face such a thing because of my embarrassing situation, so I had to face it and gradually learned to comfort myself: everything will come, everything will go on, and everything will pass. So that I didn't forget to comfort myself silently on the day of the incident: Look, isn't it already going on?

Human feelings, smoke and dust, are the most annoying.

A few years ago, my mother died at the age of 60, as it should be. She gave up because of human feelings. Grandma sighed for it again and felt it was wrong. I think this is very good. Sacrifice to arouse people's enthusiasm is a secular ceremony. How much energy does the living have to cherish it? Isn't it ridiculous to miss it to remember?

Missing is a matter in one's heart, and it is also a long-flowing emotion in life. "I don't know the heart of the mountain and the moon, and the water and wind fall in front." That's enough.

Mother died at the age of 3 1. If she were alive, she would be 65 years old now. Her life ended at the age of 365,438+0. In my mind and imagination, she will always be 365,438+0 years old and never get old.

And I'll get older than her.

About the author: Jiang Xu, born in 1980s, signed a book at ten o'clock. Boil words to satisfy hunger, borrow strokes to draw the heart. Li Qingzhao: Who is a poet and who is a poet? Click "Follow" in the upper right corner to watch more related content.