In late winter, before the snow comes, the world is desolate, and even the air seems wrinkled and gloomy. Walking in the cold wind, I felt a little breathless, and I couldn't help but want to cry.
Looking at the pedestrians on the road, walking in a hurry. Are they deliberately escaping the cold and rushing home to gain warmth? Or are there relatives whom you haven’t seen for a long time, waiting eagerly at a distant intersection? I stared closely at the familiar narrow country road. Would my father still be standing in front of the door waiting for me to come home?
Since childhood, my father has always stood in front of the house like the towering camphor tree, waiting for me to come home. Once upon a time, the tall figure warmed me like the warm sun. My father is honest, simple and kind, not good at speaking, and has no skills. He relies on hard work to make money to support his family. In my memory, when I moved out of Dachongzi, there were a few thatched houses and then red brick houses. Then he built white-walled buildings and distributed them to his brothers. Every brick, tile, beam and wood were all made by his father. He went out to do odd jobs during the day, and went home to lay the foundation at night, hoe after hoe, and load after load. It took many sleepless nights to turn a hillside into flat ground, and a building gradually took shape under the father's day and night work. Throughout his life, my father made bricks, tiles, cut reeds, worked on construction sites, and kept building materials. All year round, day and night, no matter how much sweat we have shed, how much suffering we have endured, and how many twists and turns we have gone through. My young brothers don't know what it feels like, and I, who am ignorant, don't know. Perhaps only my father's hands, wrinkled as bark, know, and the stars in the sky know.
The first day of the eleventh lunar month is my father’s birthday. I heard from my mother that when this day comes every year, my father is very happy. He puts on new clothes early in the morning and goes to the town to buy fish and meat. Every year on this morning, my cell phone rings again and again. My father always calls and keeps asking: "Sister, where are you? Is it cold? Pay attention to safety on the road. Can you pick me up when you get off the car?" This makes me always slow. Rushing home quickly. Sometimes I can't go home due to physical reasons or work reasons, and I can only hear my father's disappointed voice on the phone: "Oh, okay! Sister, work hard and pay more attention to your health! Mom and I are fine, don't worry... ..." I felt guilty and sad.
On this day last year, the weather was equally cold, and the bleakness of winter seemed to be written all over the walls of the old house. The walls were covered with grass, which withered sparsely in the sunlight.
I pushed the courtyard door open, as if another world had opened. I saw my father sitting on a small stool next to the door of the hall, with a gray beard, a cotton wool hat, a brown-black cotton jacket and gray-blue cotton trousers, squinting in the sun, as if the sound of my opening the door did not come. By disturbing him, I woke up the little black dog at my father's feet. The little black dog suddenly stood up, but timidly hid beside my father and started wagging its tail and yelling at me.
I walked to my father, and he opened his eyes and looked at me with a look of surprise on his face.
"Dad, I'm back." As soon as the words came out, sourness came to my heart. I half-knelt beside my father, pulled his cold and dry hand over and held it tightly. I could clearly feel his hands trembling slightly, and his cloudy eyes seemed to suddenly become cloudier. I didn't know if those were my father's tears.
My father took out his right hand and touched my face tremblingly: "Sister, um, you're back. Just come back!" He nodded slightly, looked at it and asked with concern, "Your face Why are you so pale? Are you sick? "
"It's okay, my stomach hurts a little..." Due to old health problems, I almost fainted in the car several times, so my face turned pale. My father immediately took my hand to the kitchen, lit a fire to warm me up, and poured hot water to warm my hands. He kept saying: "Sister, you must take good care of your body. You have been in poor health since you were young. It’s a lot of hardship to eat...” When I was eating, although I didn’t taste it, I still cheered up to eat with my father to make him happy. My father kept putting delicious dishes into my bowl and asked me to eat more. I looked up at my father and found that he was really old. His face was full of vicissitudes of life and his teeth were missing. He chewed his meals slowly and could no longer eat many dishes.
The guilt in my heart rushed into my eyes again. I spent too little time with my father, but my father always cared about me as he did when he was a child. Father, if the past story is a heart-wrenching misfortune in my life, then having you is the greatest blessing among my misfortunes in this life! Thank God, thank earth, thank fate for allowing me to be your daughter.
My father knew that I liked listening to the erhu since I was a child. After dinner, I played the erhu thoughtfully. Listening to the beautiful sound of the erhu, I suddenly saw a dreamy countryside. My stomach no longer hurt. I leaned against my father. Many photos were taken in my arms, and my father was so happy when he saw the group photos. I never thought that this would be my father’s last birthday, and it would become an eternal memory for me.
When I think back to the happy times with my father and the neglect of my father's love, my heart is cut with a knife. If my father were still alive, I would always be by his side. But there is no what if in this world, I will regret all my life. Today is my father's birthday again, but I can no longer see my father's waiting, my father's hope, and I can no longer receive my father's phone calls to ask for help, but it makes me miss me so much, and I want to rush home so urgently, as if, Father is still standing in front of the door waiting for me.
About the author: Zhou Xuehui, whose online name is Snowflake Feiwu, has a short full-time education. He graduated from a social university and is continuing his studies. She loves literature and has published works from time to time. Among them, five e-books of "Self-Created Poems about Pictures and Moods" were published by Beijing DreamWorks. Several poems and essays were published on literary platforms and newspapers. Huaxia Literature and Art Publishing House published "Selected Poems of Zhou Xuehui". He loves life and is good at making friends. He is a member of the Ningxiang Writers Association and the Ningxiang Poetry and Prose Association. He is innocent by nature and loves to talk, laugh and make trouble.