Lyric prose on the impression of an old house

The old house is a kite parked in memory, freezing the thoughts of March. Only sparrows and old elm trees accompany the old house as it ages. Those stories that once warmed our memories, in the apricot blossom mist and rain, the faint laughter of the past, and the moss on the gray tiles, also repeated yesterday's stories, but they still cannot take away the sadness of March. The dust in the corner and the mottled smoke on the bed seemed to carry the dreams of my mother’s generation and the warm stories of the bed.

In those years, the old house planted our childhood on the kang, and the thought of it was more intriguing than the willow trees by the pond and the swings by the playground. Although we were rubbing our bare buttocks on the bamboo mat, we also learned many stories that will benefit us throughout our lives. My mother was moving her sewing basket in the old house, mending the trivial matters of life stitch by stitch. The smoke from the kang got into the gaps in the window paper and tied with the sunshine. The warmth slipped gently from the corners of the house and my mother's cheeks. Sprinkle it to any corner of the extremely ugly old house. We gathered around my mother and listened to the story of "Seven Wild Eggs". We kept asking about the ending of the story, and my mother's white lies changed the ending of the story into an education and reminder for us. Magpies were chirping outside the house, and my mother signaled that someone was coming outside, so we climbed down from the kang. The joy and noise once moved outside the house, and the tranquility at this moment belonged to the old house and the mother inside. Perhaps at that time, the old house had the same unhappiness and sadness as my mother. My mother was not much sad. At most, she was worried that we would not have enough to eat and not be warm enough to wear. But we did not care about food and clothing as long as the kang in the old house was hot. When there is smoke, our hearts are warm.

The old house does not seem to have much sadness. It lies lazily in the sunny corner of the village, living its spring, summer, autumn and winter leisurely. It seems like we have dreams just like us, but they are too simple or not very demanding, so there is no pain or sadness. I vaguely remember that only my grandfather and grandmother spent their last days reading in the old house. The old house seemed a little sad amidst our cries, and it was empty for a few days. As the years passed, the old house returned to its original state with the erosion of time. . The green roof tiles are stained with moss, and the rafters on the roof are burned by firewood smoke. The face is dark and full of tears. The walls of the house have an ugly face, and the smoke holes are like the cheeks we touch when we touch our noses. Only the lips and teeth are visible, and the rest are black.

Only the stories of the warm summer nights in the old house are memories we can never erase. In summer, people in my hometown are busier. Mother and father have to weed wheat and bean fields, so they go out early and come back late. The pigs, dogs, and chickens at home rely on us naked kids. The weather is getting warmer, so instead of staying in the old house, we are active in the countryside. I was really hungry before I went home. As soon as I entered the house, I couldn't see my mother, and I felt a little disappointed. Sitting on the steps of the old house, I watched the egg-laying hen keep showing its amorous behavior. It had a red face and puffed out its chest, pacing back and forth under the eaves of the corridor, "clucking eggs, clucking eggs". The call of merit spreads lazily around the house from the front yard to the backyard. The sun shone into the ground outside the house door, and the old house was so quiet that only the sounds of mosquitoes and flies could be heard coming in and out. I was very hungry and there was nothing to eat at home, so I had to wait for my mother to come home and cook a meal. It was said to be rice, but it was actually a clear soup that could reach the roof. I still don’t understand how my parents carried it.

"The twigs are fighting against each other's backs, the rotten wood is lifted up, the sun is shining brightly when breakfast is eaten; the stars are bright when eating black rice." This song my mother taught me, I now understand is a portrayal of rural life at that time. In summer, it gets dark relatively late. Sometimes, my mother will cook dinner while we are already fast asleep on the earthen kang in the old house. Sometimes, if we could make some oatmeal noodles at home, my mother was afraid that we would fall asleep, so she asked my father to coax us to prevent us from falling asleep. We sat in a row on the steps under the eaves of the old house. The room was dark and the sky was full of stars. Like pearls scattered on bluestone. "The moon is shining, climb up the wall." Under our call, the moon slowly climbed up to the top of the mountain behind the old house. The steps and the courtyard of the old house became much warmer. The moonlight shines on my father's kind face, and the Milky Way stretches wide from one end of the village to the other, smooth and transparent, getting close to this simple farmyard. The slight evening breeze under the eaves took away the sleepiness that often disturbed us. We raised our little faces to look at the star-studded night sky, listened to the sound of grass and insects flying across the courtyard, and the story of "The Cowherd and the Weaver Girl" that my father told us.

After dinner was ready, we were still immersed in the wonderful story. In order to coax us to eat as soon as possible, my mother smiled and said: "Eat, this is the delicious meal that Emperor Qianlong had!" At that time, I didn't know who Emperor Qianlong was. It’s not human, but I clearly remember her taking an ordinary oatmeal egg and calling it a “gold-thread hanging gourd”, which is like a poetic name. Every time I think of the scene at that time, the mood is vividly vivid in my mind, and even the air around the old house seems to be marching in the corridor of time without leaving.

Later, as my family’s life improved, the old house also changed its appearance several times with us. My father renovated the old house that had been owned by my grandfather for nearly 50 years and where our stories grew up in our memories. He installed glass windows, built a foundation and built a dock with blue bricks. According to my father and the people in the village, it is called "wearing boots and hats". My father also built a big kang room inside, saying that he wanted his uncle and uncle who worked in the city to go home and celebrate the New Year together. No matter how poor he was at that time, the child was only happy to celebrate the New Year. He counted on his fingers every day, and even dreamed about it with the flavor of the New Year. He also showed off to his friends in the village in advance that his uncle and the others would celebrate the Spring Festival together. As for the debt and hard work our parents put in to change the appearance of their old house, we never asked about it.

Time seems to pass by very quickly in our naive expectation. The New Year is finally here. My brother-in-law and uncle are here. The 16 of us huddle in the old house to welcome the special Spring Festival. At that time, there were no electric lights in my house and we lit kerosene lamps. My father specially made several larger lamps out of cans. On the thirtieth day, my uncle asked his uncle to prepare two sumptuous New Year’s Eve dinners, including the vegetables and meat they brought from the city, the New Year pigs his father killed, and the eggs from his own chickens. "Egg dumplings", "alfalfa meat"...my uncle wrote Spring Festival couplets for our family. It seemed to me that this was the first time my family had posted Spring Festival couplets. I still remember the slogans posted on the old house: "Father and son work together, mountains become jade, brothers work together to turn soil into gold." The window decorations cut by my mother were also pasted on the windows, "Magpies make plum blossoms," "There are fish every year," "Fish make trouble." Lotus"...the old house looks grand and prosperous in this special year. At night, we also set off fireworks, including "Spring Thunder of the Earth", "Fireworks in Hands", "Rattlesnake", etc. The colorful fireworks decorated the old house and the courtyard around the old house. The old house connects our families together, and the old house keeps life in the dream of memory.

How many times, I can’t let go of that memory, because from my mother’s arms to the kang of the old house there are the footprints of my childhood, the shadow of my mother lighting up the lamp to read with me at night, and me and my companions drinking cans. During the tea scene, when someone asked me about it, I said unequivocally, "My home!" Since we grew up, got married, and had children, due to work, or occasionally going to the city to catch up with the latest trends, we have unknowingly given over to the old house. He was given the name "Hometown". Maybe this makes me miss her more. The old house holds the string of my kite. No matter how far it flies, I can never forget the other end of the string.

In March, I follow the footsteps of the spring breeze and graze the crowded soul. The moment I stepped into the old house, it was hard to calm down the worries in my heart. During the years in the old house, I often thought about going out, but when I went out, I was like a child who left his mother. Where can I rest when I feel tired? Who will wake me up after I have been dreaming for a long time. The night in the city is too noisy, and the moonlight can only illuminate the skinny old houses in low corners. The lights lengthen the longing of the night. You grew up with me, who will grow old with you.