Since ancient times, I have been reciting my mother's poems.

This summer, I went to Zibo, Shandong Province, and met Amy for a long time. Before a few commonplaces, she cried and said, "Second brother, my mother talked about you every day in her later years."

Among our brothers and sisters, Amy is the youngest and spends the longest time with her parents. And I, who left home the earliest and walked the farthest, was worried by my old mother.

"Mom often talks about your childhood." Amy told me. "Second brother, do you still remember yourself?"

Mom left us for ten years, and I wasn't in front of her when she died.

"Mom said you didn't like to talk when you were young. You make people laugh when you talk. When others laugh, you don't say it. Once at a relative's house for dinner, the adults talked and laughed and only talked about their affairs. You are caught in the middle, like a little papaya, and suddenly you say to yourself, "My rooster laid an egg," ... everyone is shocked, and you say,' It's red.' Adults just laugh, laugh enough, wait for you below, you will be silent. "

I don't remember at all. I don't remember at all.

An Mei sobbed and said these words intermittently. Say that finish, she wiped her tears and smiled.

"Mom also said that once you came home from school and were harvesting wheat, a dozen day laborers squatted at the gate and stuttered at lunch. They stopped the road and wouldn't let you go home. You put your hand back and pretend to be an old man, saying,' Please get out of the way and let my old man pass!' Everyone asked,' Grandpa, how old are you?' You said,' I'm eighty years old.' Mom says you are only eight years old. "

I seem to be listening to other people's anecdotes I didn't expect me to be so funny. When I was a child, all these little things were collected in my mother's memory, but why did some things about my mother rarely appear in my memory?

The mother I remember is not as dramatic as the child my mother remembers. I only have some impressions of her.

As long as I can remember, she seems not to be very young.

She wears only one color of blue cloth all the year round.

I remember that on a snowy day, my friends and I had enough running and playing in the snow outside. It was dusk when we got home. We walked into the yard and saw my mother sitting on the stove and making a fire. Hui Jin, a torch from the stove mouth, spilled on my mother's blue cloth coat, making my mother's face red. Through the colorful and confusing snowflakes, the deep night sets off the mother sitting in the halo, which is particularly beautiful. When I was about twenty years old, it was also snowy. I thought of my mother. I wrote a little poem, which I didn't save, but I am confident that the artistic conception is beautiful, because it records a precious glimpse of my youth-dusk, snowflakes, and the fire at the stove mouth reflects my beautiful mother. ...

My mother is very diligent, and she does whatever the servants do, probably since she became a daughter-in-law. Our family is not rich.

Mom likes singing. When I was young, I listened to my brothers recite poems. After being a daughter-in-law, listen to her husband's poems. Mom must have memorized some Tang poetry and Song poetry. But her singing is just an accent that she hums at will. My family often has blind artists to deliver meals. In the evening, they played the lyre and sang some drums in the hall to repay their host's kindness. Mother's singing seems to have the tone of reciting ancient poems, with the tone of three strings, which is an aria created by herself. It can be called "absolute music" with tones and no words.

This aria is deep, long and sad.

Mother never says anything sad. She told her children to study hard, live up to expectations and be a man. She believes that tomorrow will be better than today, and future generations will be better than the previous generation.

However, I know my mother is deeply sad. Although I don't know what she is sad about, I feel that she is sad from her singing and chanting, and it is very, very, very, very deep, very deep, very deep, very deep, very deep, very deep, very deep, very deep, very deep, very deep, very deep. She sat on the kang, sewing and singing, as if in a monologue. "Teenagers don't know the taste of sorrow." I began to realize from my mother's songs that there is something in life called sadness, which will make me cry for no reason. And I like the smell very much, not to mention I learned it from my mother's singing.

"How nice the seaside is! There are many stones on the beach, purple. I really want to live by the sea, build a small stone house with purple stones, live in it and watch the sea alone every day … "Once my mother suddenly stopped sewing and interrupted her singing and said these words for no reason. She looked at me quietly and smiled. I cried on my mother's knee.

I am very, very sad. "I want to build a stone house by the sea," said my mother.

At that time, I was fourteen or fifteen years old, and I tried to compose a little poem from my mother's words. I only wrote these three sentences, and I can't write any more, as if I had finished writing them all. In the next few years, I continued to write many times without success. In the end, there are only three sentences left. I know from this that some poems can only have a beginning, and the beginning is the end.

I'm surprised that my mother has never seen the sea. How can she yearn for the sea so much?

An Mei told me that during the War of Liberation and the War to Resist US Aggression and Aid Korea, my mother would burn incense for the Bodhisattva and pray for me every night. She believes that I will come back safely.

1955 I went home to visit my parents and left them for ten years. It turns out that I took 20 days off to visit my family, but I only stayed at home for two nights. My father was reluctant to let me go, and my mother said, "Just leave early." Without a word to stop me, she sighed and said, "If I am your age, why can't I make a revolution!" "

I didn't answer, and I didn't know how to answer.

I asked Anmei, "What was your mother's duty before she was in danger?"

"No."

My mother died of lung cancer at the age of seventy-four, which was a very old age. A few days before my mother died, she told me a story of May: In ancient times, there was a dutiful son whose mother died. After the funeral, he smiled and sang at the grave. People were surprised and said he was crazy. In fact, this dutiful son is really filial. It is a happy event that people can't live forever, live to the right age and die in peace. A mother knows that her child can survive and live happily as before, and she will die with her eyes closed.

AnMei here, no words; I don't want to say anything when I hear this. Silence. Only silence. Children can only condense into a silent heart flower, with unspeakable deep sorrow, dedicated to our loving mother's soul in heaven!

I was going to ask Anmei, and my mother also said something about my childhood. But why ask again? At that time, it belonged to mother. Every child's childhood is poetic in his mother's mind. That is my mother's own artistic creation, and only she can appreciate it best. Any free translation is not as interesting and energetic as the original in my mother's mind. Since it is mother's own poem, let her go! "Guangling San is definitely going from here!" Mom! My mother!