Mother's kerosene lamp (prose)

My hometown is in a big ravine in Hexi Corridor of Gansu Province. You can eat your stomach when it rains. When it doesn't rain, you will be hungry. Under the bare blue sky on the mountain, it looks desolate and depressing, and the life of the villagers is tight as a rope.

As long as I can remember, I will light a kerosene lamp every day when it is dark. The family sat in a circle and told some stories during the day, while my mother, sitting next to the kerosene lamp, was holding inexhaustible soles in her hands or sewing clothes for her younger brothers and sisters.

Every day when it gets dark, I snuggle up to my mother and fall asleep sweetly in the sound of her "sneer" soles.

I remember when we were in the fourth grade of primary school, we began to learn to write Chinese brush. One day, I asked my mother for 20 cents to buy a bottle of ink. My mother had a hard time finding some steel scrapers from her pocket and cupboard, which was only 80 cents in total. My mother looked helpless and anxious. So she took out two eggs hidden in the grain cupboard and gave them to me (at that time, an egg shop charged 8 cents). This is how I bought a bottle of ink. I gave my mother the remaining 40 cents.

Naturally, after I went to school, my mother gave me this little kerosene lamp, telling me to study hard, to be successful, to live in a building in the city and to use electric lights in the future.

In the future, more strokes will be written and more ink will be used naturally. In order to save our province, my mother mixed ink with boiling water in a ratio of one to three. Later, my mother cooked it with dyeing powder, put it in a bottle and mixed it with water to ensure the ink I used.

The children of the poor are in charge early. Although I am twelve years old, I know a lot. At that time, it was still a big group. A labor day is worth 12 cents, but it doesn't get a few dollars a year. In a good rainy year, it still gets ten dollars. On the contrary, it can't even afford a new pair of socks for the Spring Festival. I looked at my mother's slim figure and white hair scattered by the northwest wind, and secretly thought, I must go to college and live in the city, so that my mother can live in the building. ...

I mistakenly thought I was wearing a military uniform instead of going to college. After changing jobs and becoming a soldier, I stayed in a foreign city, lived in a building, and fulfilled my mother's dream. But my unlucky mother left us prematurely. She has never been on a train in her life. Every time I look back, there is always an unspeakable taste. My throat is crawling and my eyes are moist.