The sunlight in the sky gradually went out, and the thin curtain on the ground slowly rose. Thin Veil This is the outpost of the Night Army. This fierce army has since been eternally marked by the day: it is always in the face of defeat and victory, and the Lord always looks at the universe from sunset to sunrise, and when the day clears the way, it turns to a hidden place to peep.

It hides in deep mountain valleys, among the city's locals, among dense forests, in the depths of sunken lakes: it hides in primitive underground caverns, mines and trenches, corners and wall caves. It spread out slowly, quietly spreading, and finally filled every dark corner.

It lurks in the cracks of the bark, the folds of the dress, lies under the thinnest pillars of sand, wrapped in the thinnest nets, and waits to be dispatched. Although it is only a temporary concession to drive it away from one place, it still has to choose a good night, regroup, and make a comeback; It is also necessary to try to seize new positions and finally engulf the whole world.

As the sun set, Twilight, the outpost of the Night Army, quietly and cautiously drove out in groups from various hidden places, filling the houses, corridors, foyers, and dimly lit staircases; From behind the cabinets and chairs poured out to the center of the room, enveloping the drapery; Rushing out of the bright windows into the streets, silently attacking the walls and roofs, occupying the high ground, there patiently waiting for the clouds in the sky to enter the black gauze tent.

After a while, the darkness suddenly launched an all-out offensive, rising from the ground to the sky. The beast lay down in the burrow, and the pedestrians went back to their houses; Life is like waterless grass and trees, wilting and withering, dying; The colors and contours of the scenery disappear into the darkness together, and nothing can be seen.

At this time, a strange figure appeared in the empty streets of Warsaw, holding a small tinder on his head. As if he had come to ward off the darkness, he ran along the pavement at a rapid pace, and at the sight of the street lamp, he stopped, lit the light of joy, and then disappeared like a shadow.

And so on day after day, year after year. Whether it is the spring when the flowers are in full bloom and the wind is beautiful, or the hot summer in July when the thunderstorms are intertwined, whether it is the late autumn when the wind is howling and the dust is boundless, or the harsh winter when the snow drifts for thousands of miles, as soon as dusk descends on the world, he will run all over the streets and alleys, holding the fire, lighting the lights, and then disappearing like a shadow.

Where do you come from? Where are you? Why do you hide yourself so that people can't see your face or hear your voice? Do you have a wife and a mother? Are they always waiting for your return? How many daughters do you have? Do they always lean against the door, and when you put a little tinder in the corner of the house, they climb up to your knees and put it around your neck? Do you have a friend with whom you can laugh and grieve together? Do you have an acquaintance that is even just for chatting?

You've got to have a place to live, right? You have to have a name for people to call them, right?

Are you really a silent ghost who sees and sees, only coming out in the twilight, and the common needs and feelings are as hidden as the heart?, and told me his address. I went to the house and asked to light the light, and then it was like a shadow.

And it was said to me, Indeed, there is such a man,

Is there a lamplighter living here?"

"Where's his room?"

It's like Ba Jing going to town. I looked through the window, and there was only a small bed against the wall, and there was a long pole next to the bed. ”

Carrying a small lamp, the first spark. The lighter is not at home.

"Tell me a little bit about what he looks like. ”

"Did he look like last night?" The sweeper replied with one shoulder, "I haven't been able to see it clearly!" He added: "He was never at home during the day. ”

I visited him for the second time half a year later.

"Hey, is the lamplighter home today?"

The people of Shito Hiin sighed and said, "No, never anymore! He's dead. ”

The sweeper pondered silently.

After inquiring about some details, I rushed to the cemetery.

"Look at the grave man, I want to inquire, yesterday a lamplighter was buried, where is his grave?"

"Lamplighter?" He repeated, "Who knows where he was buried! Yesterday there were thirty 'tourists'

Of course, he must have been buried in a poor man's cemetery.

And the poor came twenty-five. ”

However, he must have slept in a white coffin.

"Sixteen 'tourists' sleeping in white coffins have also come!"

I couldn't see his face, I couldn't find his name, I couldn't even find the pile of loess where he was buried. When he died, he left the same impression as he did before his death: a silent, unrevealed, shadow-like figure that could only be seen after dusk.

In the twilight of life, a generation of unfortunate people groped and wandered: some died in the struggle; Some fell into the abyss; Chances, hopes, and hatreds strike at those who are bound by prejudice; On that dark and muddy road, there are also those who light people's lights.

Every man who bears a fire on his head, every man who lights the light on his brigade, although no one recognizes his worth, always lives and works silently, and then disappears like a shadow.

An Austrian walked out of Vienna, across Hawaii, thousands of miles away, to get here.

A one-legged and one-armed man from Northeast China, who rode a bicycle through most of China, came here and stopped; A scholar by the Xiangjiang River, walking on the ridge and painting while walking, came here and stopped:

A graduate of the Academy of Fine Arts, walking out of the hustle and bustle of Guangzhou, stopped here:

A woman who has gone through ups and downs and has made her career from the Yangtze River to the country has stopped here: what about myself, how many years have I neglected, how many years have I missed, and inadvertently, when I came here, I also stopped.

The name here is Lijiang.

Lijiang, what do you rely on to make people stop? What attract people from different hometowns, backgrounds, and experiences? What makes people stare at you, look at you, and approach you like this?

Is it the sky in Lijiang? The sky in Lijiang is often clean and blue. Even if it's cloudy, it's soft: even if it's rainy, it won't disappoint people, and the gentle rain adds a bit of charm to Lijiang.

Is it the water in Lijiang? A place with water, just like a girl with eyes, Lijiang is full of water, and everywhere is full of spirituality. I always like to have breakfast at the small shop that sells Lijiang baba, sitting on the wooden bridge over the river at the door, looking at the flowing water under my feet.

I heard that there was a customary rule in the old town of Lijiang: early in the morning, the people took water from the canal and drank and cooked; In the morning, wash vegetables and wash rice by the water; At noon and evening, you can wash the laundry and mop; In the dead of night, the water level of the Black Dragon Pond, the water source of the old town of Lijiang, will be raised, so that the water from the large and small canals scattered throughout the city will gently overflow, washing the stone streets clean. The day is almost dawn, the water has receded, and the refreshing ancient city welcomes the early risers.

I thought, if this rule continued, then, at night, I would stand barefoot on the stone path, waiting for the river to overflow my feet and the moonlit town. Lijiang with water, moving eyes!

Is it the mountains of Lijiang? The Jade Dragon Snow Mountain in Lijiang looked down on me silently, I faced its glaciers, its snow, but I didn't feel its awe-inspiring, it is not as awe-inspiring as the mountains of the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau, it uses the grass at the foot of the mountain, the trees on the mountainside to send a gentle hint to people: we can be close to each other.

So, I approached the Jade Dragon Snow Mountain, every time I saw it, it was different, suddenly a cloud of mist made the snow mountain confused, suddenly a gust of wind made the snow mountain clear and clear, and suddenly a glow made the snow mountain sparkle and shimmer. Let the clouds entangle, the wind surrounds, the snow-capped mountains are silent, and the snow-capped mountains remain unchanged. What is changing is the cloud, the wind, the light, the fog, and the mood of people.

Is it the city of Lijiang? The taste of the ancient city can only be tasted by being immersed in the scene, and can only be tasted thoroughly by being immersed in the scene. Someone asked, "Is the old town of Lijiang like Shaoxing?" Perhaps, the shape, is a little bit like; God, but not at all. When you walk in the city and meet people for the first time, you often don't ask your surname, but ask, "Are you Naxi, Bai, Tibetan, or Yi?"

In front of me, there is a hieroglyphic script in Dongba script; In the ear, it is Naxi ancient music; Walking beside her was a Naxi woman wearing the costume of "Wearing Stars and Wearing the Sun"; On the passing car, there are white or yellow hata... This is full of mysterious atmosphere, which is not found in Shaoxing and Zhouzhuang. It was a pleasure to walk alone in the small streets of the old city, and it was a great feeling to walk around and talk casually. A shallow well, a sloping tree, an old door, a mottled couplet, all seem like a painting, a poem, a story from a long, long time ago.

Are they from Lijiang? Lijiang people are not necessarily in the lively Sifang Street, when the outsiders from the south and the north, the blonde foreigners marvel at the ancient city, the real Lijiang people may be sitting under their spacious corridors and drinking tea calmly. Most of the people I met in Lijiang were calm, empathetic, and gentle. I heard a Honghe man sigh: I have been in Lijiang for a week, I have never heard a word of victory, I have never seen anyone quarrel, and it happened that we met Jiangren. ”

After a closer look, I said, "Isn't this a quarrel?" A Lijiang friend said: "They are definitely not from Lijiang. "If you listen carefully, it's really a businessman from out of town.

In the eyes of Lijiang people, even if there is something to quarrel about, it cannot be in front of the street: there is nothing to fight about. The teahouse and coffee house run by Zeng Jiangren can calm down the anxious guests, and in the evening, a few friends drank tea in the tearoom at the entrance of the ancient city.

In the tea room, the Lijiang "tea mother" sat in front of the antique tea set and poured tea for us. His eyes are deep, his hair is long, and his clothes are the same color as tea. I thought that in front of him, it might be difficult for friends to let go of chatting, and we couldn't stand the tedious tea ceremony.

However, he was intently fiddling with the tea set, his movements graceful, as if tea was everything in front of him, his eyes were detached and ethereal, so quiet that one could not feel his presence. Tea after tea, Lijiang's friend whispered to him, "You drink it too!" He smiled politely and sipped gently.

I thought to myself, how could his heart be so still? Lijiang smoked him like this! In this atmosphere, a friend from Lijiang told me a story: One day, a foreigner from afar came to Lijiang.

Seeing a Naxi grandmother walking slowly and doing things slowly, I couldn't help but say, "Why are you so slow?" The old man said slowly, people are born to go in one direction, that is, the grave, what are the hurry? In Lijiang, it is rare to see people who are impatient and flamboyant, even Mr. Xuanke, who is very sharp, often expresses his opinions in a silent and ridiculous way, and when he immerses himself in the Naxi ancient music he loves every night, he is still quiet.

Lijiang, what makes people stop in front of you? It is the charm of Lijiang's sky, Lijiang's water, Lijiang's mountains, Lijiang's city, and Lijiang's people.

Maybe you can call it culture, maybe you can call it "field", enter this kind of culture, this kind of "field", you will be obsessed, you will be simple, you will be happy, you will be indifferent, you will be peaceful, you will be contemplative, you will be inspired. There are few places like Lijiang that make my heart move and make me calm. For a small shop in the old town of Lijiang, I bought a wooden bracelet with the word "Yuan" written on it in Dongba script.

Words with such complex meanings are expressed in a set of pictorial hieroglyphs, and all I can understand is the eyes in them. After getting to know Lijiang for the first time, I felt like I had a relationship with it, and my eyes followed Lijiang. From summer to autumn, I came to Lijiang three times, so much so that the people of Lijiang asked, "Did you not leave?" or did you come again?"

I said in my heart, maybe one day, I will come, and I will not leave.

A name that history once called for more than three hundred years ago; Or maybe the name is a call to history?

Call for the history that has been trampled and broken by iron hooves, the history that has been blurred beyond recognition by the smoke of gunpowder, the history that has been humiliated and unwilling to be humiliated, and the history that has been distorted and is still struggling desperately.

He stood up from the sound of the wood in Shaowu County, northwest Fujian, and stood up from the worried eyes of his father and elders.

When the great officials of the feudal territory all surrendered their hands and asked to surrender, when the famous generals of Liaodong were defeated one after another, what did you stand up for? Don't you know that you are just a low-ranking Liupin county commander?

You ignore everything, and you seem to be deaf to the chatter of the world, and with the letter of invitation and seal, you strode up to the Ningyuan City Tower, and knocked the invincible Nurhachi off the horse with one shot, and deterred Huang Taiji to the point of being in a hurry!

The soldiers are still those soldiers, the salaries are still those salaries, and the Ming Dynasty is still the decaying Ming Dynasty behind you, and the face is still the gang of red-eyed Houjin Hussars, why, why did the situation suddenly change as soon as you came? Why are you not only not stunned, but also try to rewrite the history of the draft?

The ancients said: "Literature is based on qi." "As an army, a real person, why not be based on qi?)

At the end of the year, as usual, many New Year's cards fly around, like migratory birds.

The birds that flew to me, draped in colorful feathers, and countless wishes; The bird that flew away from my hand was a small plain feather, and the words in it were also simple, the same, it was written that the moon was shining among the pines, and the clear spring stone was upstream.

My birds are too plain, neither rich nor modern. I let her fly to you like this, and I hope you understand this sincerity.

I thought for a long time, I should be in that white feather

I thought for a long time, what color should I put on that white feather? So many friends, different intimacy, different expectations and understandings, what do I write? I hate that kind of indiscriminate and enthusiastic sentences, which are false and numb. I don't want to paint my birds in colorful and strange colors with Eastern and Western characters.

Facing the flock of white birds waiting to take off, I frowned slightly and pondered.

It was as if a cool breath was blowing, and a distant verse came to my heart. I smiled, it was it, and smeared this faint and moist ink on each feather.

I can't help but think of your familiar faces, of our bland or peculiar encounters in the desert red dust, how to change the first smile, the first moment of gaze, and then leave a deep and shallow, dry and moist trace on the drawing paper of each other's lives. This is the picture I yearn for, the music I am obsessed with, give it to you, you shine with the moon and pine, understand?

To you, smart and settled girl. Life can not have a lot of ecstasy and sorrow, you can't find the romantic romance here, elsewhere, in the distance is also dependent on the sea city and county building, the days of wandering are tiring, and you have thrown a lot of gold for this.

Why don't you go back to everything at the beginning and listen to its nature, like the bright moon shining brightly in the pine room, like the clear spring flowing on the stone, isn't it good?

To you, my friend who works day and night. We should know each other very well, but maybe we are too familiar to really communicate, a willow tree and a metasequoia, no matter how close we are, we can't understand each other. But we don't come from grass. Why do we do this?

I really want you to understand: I don't want to compete with others for anything, and I don't want to be a spotlight in a certain aperture, I just want to let my soul grow freely within my own national walls, and bloom plain flowers in the wind. But I can't explain it, because that might be underestimating you.

For you, this poem is a tacit understanding that does not need to be guarded against and has no mustard, will you cherish it?

Here you go, a special boy. In all the emotions, you can't settle for one role, but when the curtain falls, you feel lonely. You frequently approach women who are pleasing to the eye, and you constantly tell yourself that you can't really give anything. This game of temptation and resistance, you think of it as a cup of coffee, boil it first, wait for it to be cold, bitter liquid, add sugar, and then drink it lukewarm, bitter and sweet.

For you, this poem is a single, pure, dust-free human feeling.

Finally, to you, my dear one.

I sent this poem directly, and I didn't even need the wings to rely on. I think you know how much I want to get out of this thousand-year-old dream, find a tree root as a pillow, sleep quietly by the grass, let the spring flow beside me, and the pine needles accumulate on me. At this time, there was only a piece of tranquility and tenderness in my heart, I didn't know what worry was, what complexity was, and even your and my names were blurred, like clouds, mist, smoke, and lan, floating looming in the mountains.

To you, what is this poem? Is it a natural Zen? Is that all?

I only know that above the ten zhang red dust, there is such a place, peaceful, pure, eternal, and eternal. So he smeared this faint and moist ink on the pieces of white feathers: the bright moon shines among the pines, and the clear spring stone is upstream.

The dandelion bloomed, it bloomed from the spring when the grass grew and the warbler flew, bloomed over the long spring, its tiny goose yellow flowers, even golden to the depths of autumn, when the wild chrysanthemums all over the mountains and fields dyed the countryside and mountains, there were dandelions blooming in twos and threes, they either bloomed under a rock that the wind and frost could not fall, or bloomed in a canopy of withered grass that was as white as the old white thread, like clusters of slightly burning flames.

They were yellow and shiny, and the earth was awake, and the village was awake, and the birds and insects were awake, until after a heavy snowfall, they fell asleep under the white snow, and so did the soil, and so did the village, and everything in the world. The dandelion is the first to wake up in spring, it wakes up, the earth wakes up, the spring of the village wakes up, and the new round of years in the village wakes up.

The women of the village brought them into the neighbouring city early in the early spring, when some of them had just sprouted, some of them had just budded, some of them had just budged three or five green bean-like buds, and some of them had just bloomed with one or two yellow flowers. They are placed on the icy roads around the corners of the city, but more often they are placed in simple bamboo baskets, wandering in the hustle and bustle of the city or the long, silent alleys of the village women, amidst the timid shouts of the village women.

On the third day, the parking lot was empty and all gone. The garden is the cause of waste. The city is a dead city. I feel tired like never before. Only he can't leave, and in July, he'll go even further. He will head north to the open Canada. But before that, he crossed Katzky Hill, more than bronze statues, more bronze statues than New York, followed in the footsteps of the legendary hunter who feared guilt, and crossed the tombstones on the outskirts of the small city of Kong, and he had to be like a white-haired veteran, guarding an ancient battlefield alone.

At least at night than during the day. At night, at least the side of the tombstone was lively, self-deprecating, he thought. The advertising painting at the front of the movie theater, the bluffing cat-eyed moon sang for the ghosts all night, and even the daisies on the windows were insomnia and stood on the street corner. The momentum after midnight, reaching out to grab the pedestrians who are late to return.

There is only a mailbox that can't be chosen, and the nightmare sinks deeper. Why is everything so transparent that shuttles, alarm bells, fuss and kicks through the city center, and the small town's T colleges walk through wax museums and tulips are terrible? There are no borders here. The present is stacked on top of the future.

He walked through his own street. This kind of complete and pure blood square, but most of the time, he walks in his dreams and walks in the country, and he often does not say a word for a week. Loneliness, whether to enjoy or endure, he couldn't tell. When the refrigerator is full,

When the mailbox is empty, he seems to be forgotten by the whole world, and he doubts his existence. Standing on the top of the tower, standing in the air of the steel structure, there are no ancients before, no one after them, and the people of the time are also indifferent and alienated. Why is the West vast, and the East vast? Religion is really a country, I am a king, and I am angry with myself, he thought.

After the earth comes, she comes after the queen, and I will reign with this crystal country. After she came, she must bring the land to the top of the tower, accept the cheers of the subjects of the lonely country, the cheers of the bronze statues and stone tablets, and accept the tribute of Wu Wu, the iron cannon of the two armies, the drums and horns play in unison, and the ghost is a tragic military song.

When she comes, be sure to take her to the park chair and tell her how he sits on it and reads her letters. He also asked her to touch the mailbox on the corner of the street, which was the starting point for all his airmail letters. When she comes, she must take her to that German restaurant and ask her to taste it too, the kind of iceman heartfelt fragrance, he thought.

After she came. After she came. After she came. His life seemed to be an eternal expectation, an expectation of a miracle, of a mirage becoming a great temple. Anticipation is a half-awake, half-frenzied burning that makes the scorched soul hallucinate itself to live in the future.

The soul, the impossible Indian Thunderbird, cannot tamely crouch in the palm of the here and now, its wings preferring the winds of the past, the clouds of the future. He admired the heroes and explorers of beauty, and the beauty they could live in the here and now with a high degree of concentration, breathing at the pace of blood, in rhythm of breathing, without having to, as he did, often morbidly live in memories and expectations.

A samurai in a life-and-death duel, a lover with twisted limbs, and an explorer who fights against the mountains, he admires these things. He admired Lawrence of Arabia even more, with the same hand, who could trap cities, write poetry, measure deserts, explore souls, conquer himself, and conquer his enemies.

Autumn is the harvest season, but I am empty-handed. A year or two has passed, and it is difficult to answer who is always to blame in the anxiety and anxiety.

The elder brother who has lived in a foreign land for a long time likes poetry in his spare time. The day before yesterday, I sent the Southern Song Dynasty lyricist Zhu Dunru's "Xijiang Moon": Every day, the glass of wine is full, the flowers bloom in the small garden, singing and dancing by themselves, and they are unrestrained and unhindered.

There are several spring dreams in Qingshi, how many wizards in Hongchen, no need to worry about and arrange, and now and now.

I chanted the phrase "receive it now" over and over again, and I felt that it was a state of leisurely contentment. In fact, if you don't fill it with a deep glass of wine, you don't have to bloom in a small garden, just receive it in your heart, and you will have a good time.

Receiving your own share also means to taste and play, and to get. Then, get autumn, get winter, get the season, and get life. (Excerpt from Zong Pu's "Autumn Report")

On my first day of primary school, he and I held hands and watched apple and pear trees in the yards of every house, and walked several streets to Victoria Primary School. At the beginning of September, he jumped out of the hedge and hooked the hair of passers-by. The fist-sized fruit, the branches drooped because of the weight, and many, many children waited on the playground for the first bell to ring for class.

The little hand is encircled in the palm of my father and mother's, and my timid eyes look at the surroundings. They are kindergarten graduates, but they don't yet know the law: the graduation of one thing is always the beginning of another.

As soon as the sound sounded, the figures were mixed and rushed in different directions, but in the midst of so many chaotic crowds, I could see the back of my own child very clearly—as if you could still hear exactly where you were when a hundred babies were crying at the same time.

Hua An walked forward with a colorful schoolbag on his back, but he kept looking back; It was as if he had traveled through an infinite river of time and space, and his gaze met my gaze in the air. He watched as his skinny back disappeared into the door.

At the age of sixteen, he went to the United States as an exchange student for a year. I took him to the airport. When saying goodbye, I hugged as usual, and my head could only be pressed against his chest, as if hugging the giraffe's feet. He was clearly barely enduring his mother's affection.

He was in a long line, waiting for his passport to be checked; I just stood outside, and followed his back inch by inch. Finally, it was his turn, and he stopped at the customs window for a moment, then retrieved his passport, flashed through a door, and disappeared.

I waited, waiting for a glance back before he disappeared. But he didn't, not once.

Now he's twenty-one years old, and he's in college, which happens to be the university where I teach. But even if he was on the same road, he wouldn't want to ride in my car. Even in the same car, he put on headphones and only one person could listen to music, which was a closed door.

Sometimes he was waiting for a bus across the street, and I looked down from the window of a tall building: a tall, thin young man with his eyes looking at the gray sea; I can only imagine that his inner world is as deep as mine, but I can't get in. After a while, the mutena came, blocking his figure. The car drove away, and there was only one post box standing on an empty street.

I slowly and slowly learned that the so-called father-daughter-mother-son relationship just means that your fate with him is to constantly watch his back drift away in this life and this life. You stand at this end of the path, watching him fade away at the bend in the path, and he silently tells you with his back: don't chase.

Slowly, slowly, I realized that my loneliness seemed to be related to another back.

After finishing my Ph.D., I went back to Taiwan to teach, and on the first day of my university registration, my father drove me long distances in his cheap pickup truck. When I arrived, I realized that he had not driven to the main entrance of the university, but had stopped at the narrow alley at the side entrance. After unloading his luggage, he climbed back into the car, ready to go back, obviously started to lead Li, but he got out of the car blindly, stuck his head out and said: "Daughter, Dad feels very sorry for you, this kind of car is really not a car for university professors." ”

I watched as his pickup truck carefully reversed and then "poofed" out of the alleyway, leaving a cloud of black smoke in its wake. Until the car turned and I couldn't see it, I was still standing there, next to a suitcase.

It has been more than ten years since I went to the hospital to see him in the hospital every week. Pushing his wheelchair for a walk, his head down to his chest. Once, I found excrement drenched all over his trouser legs, and I squatted down to wipe it with my own handkerchief, and my skirt was also stained with feces, but I had to rush back to work in Taipei.

The nurse took his wheelchair, I picked up my purse, looked at the back of the wheelchair, stopped in front of the automatic glass door, and then did not enter the door.

I always run to the airport in the twilight.

In front of the door of the crematorium, the coffin is a large, heavy drawer that slides slowly forward. I didn't expect to be able to stand so close, and I was only five meters away from the furnace door. The rain was slanted by the wind and drifted into the corridor. I brushed away the rain-soaked hair on my forehead and gazed deeply, deeply, hoping to remember this last sight.

I slowly and slowly learned that the so-called father-daughter-mother-son relationship just means that your fate with him is to constantly watch his back drift away in this life and this life. You stand at this end of the path, watching him fade away at the bend in the path, and he silently tells you with his back: don't chase.

When my mother was young, she combed a thick and long braid with green silk, which was coiled into a screw-like bun during the day, raised high at the back of her head, and hung behind her back at night. I slept next to my mother's shoulder, my fingers playing around the ends of her long hair, and the scent of my sister's hair growth oil mixed with the smell of grease smoked my nose. It smelled a little bad, but I felt safe with my mother, so I fell asleep

Every year on the seventh day of the seventh month, my mother washes her hair happily. The rule of the countryman is that you can't wash your hair on ordinary days. If you wash your hair, and the dirty water flows to the underworld, the king of Hades will store it up and drink it after you die, and only when you wash your hair on the seventh day of the seventh month, the dirty water will flow to the East Sea. Therefore, from July 7 to July, every woman has to have more than half a day to distribute skills.

Some women are as beautiful as grape fairies with their hair, while others are ugly. My fifth uncle, for example, was short and shriveled, and lost more than half of her hair, but she drew a boxy forehead with charcoal, and blackened the top of her head like bark.

After washing my hair, the charcoal was gone, and the top of my head was half bare, except for a handful of hair on the back of my head, floating on my back, and I didn't even dare to look at her as she swayed around the kitchen to help my mother cook. But her mother's soft black hair hung down on her shoulders like a piece of satin, and the breeze blew, and a lock of short hair brushed her white cheeks from time to time. Ground squinted his eyes, put his hand behind his back, and after a while floated over again.

She is short-sighted, and she is particularly pretty when she squints. I thought to myself, if my father was at home and saw my mother's beautiful hair, he would definitely go to the street and buy a pair of shiny rhinestone hairpins for her to wear. Mom must have put it on for a while and then took it off embarrassedly. Then this pair of rhinestone clips will soon become the "head face" of my bride.

Father Su soon returned. I didn't buy rhinestone hairpins, but I brought back an aunt. The skin of the earth is so fine and white, and the soft temples like clouds are brighter than the mother's.

The half of the west wing, the peach to the back, unified a big horizontal love of the day, like a large braided cover to cover the back half of the class, the first time to send school from the grass ear road. The mother strip just put the braid up and comb it aside.

She won't let me play, I think it's probably because she is reluctant to wear it.

After our family moved to Hangzhou, my mother didn't have to be busy in the kitchen, and many times, my father asked her to come out to greet guests, and her sharp screws were really not presentable, so my father asked her to change the style. The mother asked her friend Aunt Zhang to comb her abalone head.

At that time, the abalone head was combed by the old lady, and the mother was only over thirty years old, but she had to dress up as the wife, and the aunt just smiled when she saw it, and the father frowned. I quietly asked her, "Mom, why don't you also comb the same type and wear the jade earrings that your aunt gave you?" Dan Qin said with a calm face: "Your mother is a countryman, where can she comb her modern hair and wear those exquisite earrings?"

My aunt never washes her hair on the seventh day of the seventh month. I wash my hair several times a month. After washing, a girl gently fanned with a large pink feather fan next to her, and her soft hair fluttered out, making people feel soft. My father sat on a bed of rosewood sticks, puffing with a hookah, and from time to time he turned his head to look at her, his eyes full of laughter.

My aunt smeared Sanhua brand hair oil, the fragrance was overflowing, and then she sat up straight, facing a shiny Ai Sizhi on the mirror plate, and I stood on the side and looked stunned. My aunt handed me a bottle of Sanhua brand hair oil and told me to show it to my mother, but my mother put it high on the back of the cupboard and said, "I smell this new type of hair oil, and I feel sick to my stomach when I smell it." ”

Mother can't always trouble Aunt Zhang, the abalone head that she combed out is tight and tight, and the difference between the original screw bun is limited, not to mention my father, even I don't like it. At that time, my aunt had already asked for a bag to comb her hair, and Sister-in-law Liu. Sister-in-law Liu has a big red stick on her head, a pair of big feet, supporting a short and fat body, and she is panting when she walks.

She came at ten o'clock every morning to comb her aunt's hair with all kinds of hair, such as phoenix buns, lupine buns, concentric buns, and doxedoes, often changing their appearances, setting off her aunt's delicate skin, and curling Tingting's water snake waist, which attracted her father to smile and squint more and more. Sister-in-law Liu persuaded her mother: "Mrs., you should also comb a fashionable style." ”

The mother shook her head, but it didn't make a sound, she pursed her thick lips and walked away. Mother was soon introduced by Aunt Zhang, a sister-in-law Chen. She is older than Sister-in-law Liu, with a big yellow flat face, and two shiny gold teeth in her mouth that are exposed outside, and she looks like a woman who loves to talk. She combed and chattered from Old Lady Zhao's eldest and young grandmother to Chief of Staff Li's third aunt, and her mother didn't say a word like a stuffy gourd, but I listened to it with relish.

Sometimes Sister-in-law Liu and Sister-in-law Chen came together, and the mother and aunt combed their hair back to back in front of the porch at the same time. I only listened to my aunt and sister-in-law talking and laughing, and my mother just closed her eyes and recuperated. Sister-in-law Chen became more and more bored with combing, and soon quit her job and couldn't come, and I clearly heard her say to Sister-in-law Liu: "Such an old country wife, what kind of bag to comb her hair?" I cried angrily, but I didn't dare tell my mother.

Since then, I have been combing my mother's hair on a low stool, combing the simplest abalone head. I tiptoed and looked at my mother in the mirror. Her face was no longer as plump and bright as it had been in the country kitchen, and her eyes stopped in the mirror, looking at herself in distraction, no longer smiling. I pinched my mother's hair in my hands. I combed it one by one, but I already understood that a small boxwood comb could no longer sort out the sorrow in my mother's heart. Because on the other side of the corridor, from time to time there was the laughter of my father and aunt.

When I grew up and went out to study, when I came home during the winter and summer vacations, I occasionally combed my mother's hair, and pinched my hair in the palm of my hand, and I always felt that it was getting less and less. When I was a child, I couldn't help but feel sour when I saw my mother's black soft hair floating on her shoulders and the happy look on her face on the seventh day of July every year. When my mother saw me returning, she smiled from time to time on her sad face. In any case, the time when mother and daughter are together is always the happiest.

When she was studying in Shanghai, her mother wrote that she was suffering from rheumatism and could not lift her hands, and she could not even twist the simplest screws, so she had to cut off her sparse short hair. I sat in the dim moonlight of the dormitory window with the letter in my hand, crying lonely.

The late autumn night breeze blew, and I was a little cold, so I put on the soft sweater that my mother had knitted for me, and my whole body warmed up again. But my mother is old, and I can't be by her side, so she cuts off her sparse short hair, and how can she cut off her full of sorrow!

Soon after, my aunt came to Shanghai for an accident and brought a photo of her mother. I haven't seen him for three years, and my mother's hair is as white as silver. I stared blankly at the photo, full of concern, but I couldn't confide in my aunt in front of me. She seemed to be very considerate of my mother's feelings, and talked to me about my mother's current situation. said that my mother's heart was not very good and she had rheumatism. So the physical strength is not as good as before. I looked down and listened silently, thinking that she was the one who had made my mother depressed all her life, but I didn't hate her at all. Because since the death of her father, her mother and aunt have become partners who depend on each other in times of trouble, and her mother no longer hates her.

I took a closer look at her, she was wearing a gray cotton robe, a white flower on her sideburns, and the back of her neck was no longer the colorful phoenix bun or concentric bun of the past, but a simple banana roll, and her face was not powdered, and she looked very sad, and I could not help but feel infinite pity for her. Because she is not like my mother, who is a self-reliant woman, she has enjoyed the wealth and glory with my father for nearly twenty years, and once she loses her support, her sense of emptiness and loneliness will be even greater than that of my mother.

After coming to Taiwan, my aunt has become my only relative, and we have lived together for several years. In the corridor of the Japanese-style house, I watched her sit by the glass window and comb her hair, and from time to time she beat her shoulder with her fist and said, "My hands are very sore, I'm really old." "Old, she's old. The green silk that was like a cloud back then has gradually fallen, and only a small handful is left, and there are already traces of white hair.

remembered that when she was in Hangzhou, she and her mother combed their hair back to back, and the days of hatred for each other without saying a word were all in the past in a blink of an eye. In the world, what is love and what is hate? My mother has been dead for many years, and my aunt, who is dying of old age, has finally gone in the same vague and unknowable direction, and her current time is more lonely than anyone else.

I looked at her in a daze, remembering her beautiful Yokoai Sichi, and I said, "Let me comb a new style for you." She smiled and said, "What else do I want to do like that, that's your young business." ”

Can I stay young for longer? She said this, and in the blink of an eye, it has been more than ten years. I'm not young anymore. For the love, bones, greed, and infatuation of the world, he is indifferent. My mother went to me a long time ago, and my aunt's ashes were stored in a lonely monastery.

What is permanent in this world, and what is worth taking seriously?