Luo Gu looked at that person quietly like this, telling his own story, but Luo Gu only listened very carefully, he didn't make any remarks, everyone has the snow in his own heart, everyone can only sweep the snow in his heart, if you want to sweep the snow in the hearts of others, you have to put in more efforts.

But it was clear that Rogu was a lazy man, and he didn't want to do anything at all. The world may not need him.

The hustle and bustle of this bar is still so noisy.

But the man didn't seem to see the bar. There are a lot of things that have been suppressed on her, and he wants to release them all today, at this time, without any hesitation.

So he didn't think he heard the noise of the bar, he didn't want to numb his soul with alcohol, but in the end it turned out that alcohol still couldn't numb his own soul. The world has forced him to wake up, this is a sad story, life is never so easy, he has too many stories, and there are too many accidents.

Luo Gu didn't have much expression, at this time, the person in front of him was sad, and Luo Gu was also sad at the moment. Because on the first day of Rogu's return, he saw the girl, and he saw the girl called Baozi Meng.

Luo Gu saw Bao Zimeng holding another boy in his hand, the girl's smile was very sweet, so sweet that it made people feel that she was going through the happiest thing in history, such a smile Luo Gu was so familiar, because such a smile used to smile at him, but now it is not.

It didn't matter what was going on in Rogu's mind at that time. Does every love need to end without a problem, and it is not the best ending for everyone, there must be one person to break their hearts, is this love? People don't understand love, but they are shouting about love, longing for the story of love, and in the end, the poisonous fruit of love, they will also laugh and eat it, because for them, they will say, in fact, I have known for a long time that the fruit of your love is poisonous.

But you forget that you gave me this fruit, you gave it to me, and the three words "you gave it to me" say everything, because it was you. So I can accept everything with a smile, what a sad story.

The man was still telling his sad story, and he was saying, later, later.

So I started to imagine what it would be like to be able to control my body when I couldn't control it. I felt that it was necessary to experience all these feelings in order to take care of such a father. When I am suddenly laughing, I imagine that the left side of my face cannot be moved, and looking at the surprised eyes of others, I feel embarrassment and shame, and I also practice how to accept or resolve this embarrassment. Halfway through my walk, I suddenly imagine that I can't lift my left leg, and when I pick up vegetables with chopsticks, I imagine that my strength can't reach my fingers at all. So during that time, I often wrestled inexplicably. The bruises that fell out one by one, climbing on the body, were painful and numb, and I would suddenly think that my father's left body couldn't even feel this. In the first few days when my father came home, all the members of the family seemed to realize that they were cooperating with a play. The script of the play is unknown, but the central theme is to convey an optimism, a confidence in each other's future. Figure out each person's role and the right lines. Mother should be a resolute woman, when the father urinated on the bed, she pinched her throat and smiled and said, look, how do you look like a child. After laughing hastily, he turned to the alley and disposed of the sheets alone. The joke wasn't funny, but she had to say it. After that, he went to guard the gas station that had been closed for a long time—that was the livelihood of the whole family.

The father's position was temporarily vacant, and the mother filled his job. And I, I know that I should be the head of the family. Like a politician in desperate need of votes, you must immediately perceive the delicate expressions of these people, and the real state of mind behind them, and then allocate your energy very accurately, appear around them, and sometimes, make a quick decision for them, and this decision must be accompanied by a generous and powerful tone, like reading lines, and the words are said in a correct voice. We are all aware of this kind of drama, and if we suddenly jump out of it, how unnatural, lame and even ridiculous it will be. As unprofessional actors, it is becoming more and more difficult for us to devote ourselves to it, and we gradually have the impatience to not want to continue acting. What's more, the only audience, Life, has never been a very good viewer, it is like a harsh director, pointing us at us with one reality after another, and even adding a lot of drama, as if trying to help us find our own state. Mother fell down alone when pouring the oil drum, she used to assist her father, put the hundreds of catties of oil drums horizontally, and pushed them to a suitable place for storage, she used her body of less than 90 catties to push constantly, but she couldn't move half an inch at all. After class that day, I went to the gas station as I did the other day.

In the end, it was my father who broke this drama. It was his second week back home, and he tested his body countless times, repeatedly frustrating. That day, his unkempt mother brought a cane and put it beside him without saying a word, and he looked at the crutches and understood his future life, so he angrily picked up the crutches and hit his mother. Thanks to the other half of my father's hemiplegia, he couldn't aim very well, and the cane only grazed his mother's head, but a large bruise had oozed from her head and she fell to the ground. Then my sister's screams, my anger, my father's hysteria, and finally the whole family's hugging and crying. Pretty bad plot, right? Helped his mother to bed, comforted his sister, and finished feeding and washing his father with her, and helped him back to his room. When the door closes, I ask into the air. I didn't know who I was asking, I always felt like there were eyes watching it all, and then I asked the second question: How is the story going to go? Of course no one answered. My father thought he had found a way. I know that he has made up a logic in his heart, according to which he can finally regain his body and play the role of a father who once did so well. I also know that the final end of this set of logic must be impossible to complete - my father caused cerebral embolism twice because of the detachment of the heart valve, and relatives inside and outside the family have asked all the doctors who can ask, and the tiny valve blocked in my father's brain cannot be dissolved, nor can it be washed with fierce medicine - if it rushes to other parts of the brain, it is blocked by other things, and it will cause paralysis in other parts. There's no way he'll be able to get his body back. I know this cruel answer very well. I went to the library to look up what the valve looked like, it was small, it opened and closed in your heart, like the mouth of a fish. It's such a small thing, it now locks up the left half of my father's body. I also know that the longer my father practices this logic, and the harder he sticks to it, the greater the intensity of the final hit on the rocks. But I didn't dare to dismantle my father's logic, because I really couldn't find any other way. Someone has to provide a logic of hope for the whole family to move on. It was about to be autumn, and one night, he excitedly grabbed me and told me that he understood that the left half of his body was blocked from his pulse. "I'm constantly moving, I'm going to be alive and bloody, and I'm going to be alive at the end. ”

I performed very well and he believed that I was very much in agreement with his imagination. In this imagination, he can accept crutches as a temporary help. On the first day, he experimented with how long it would take to walk from home to the market on the curve, and how long it took him to come back for lunch, and finally the three of us divided into three ways, took the meal, and finally found him around the corner not far away—I walked there for about twenty minutes, but it was the result of his desperate movement from seven o'clock in the morning to one o'clock in the afternoon. But he thinks it's a good start. "At least I know where to start. He told me. On the third day, his whole plan came out: he set out at eight o'clock in the morning, walked to the end of that alley and turned back, so that he could come back at twelve o'clock for dinner, finish eating, rest for an hour, set off about half past one, and walk farther to the bend market, and then he could come back at seven o'clock in dinner. In the evening, I was at home, insisting on standing and training to lift my left foot. I still thank my father for his strength, it was almost the happiest time. Although the end may be destined to be tragic, the family is happy to enjoy the illusory order established by the father. Every day the mother prepared three meals for him according to the father's schedule, and each meal had eggs and meat as he wished—this was a long process. He often said that in the past, when seafarers had no strength to carry one or two hundred pounds of cargo, they ate meat and eggs, and they could immediately carry it. Now he wants to carry himself. Every night when everyone comes home, they will accompany him to do exercises to lift his left foot. The sport is often played in the form of a family foursome, where we all let him win, consciously or unconsciously, and then everyone falls asleep tired but good in the midst of celebration. We enjoy this happiness because it is the only happiness left. My father had one heart operation, two strokes, and four hospitalizations, and even with the help of relatives, no matter how solid his family was, he was empty. The gas station that stayed missed the good opportunity to return to PetroChina. Before my father fell ill, the other party proposed to cooperate, but in the end it was shelved due to my father's illness - and further expansion and upgrading were missed, and the competitiveness was obviously not good. People in small towns will prefer the large gas station at the mouth of the sea, which is large in area, well equipped, and has chewing gum and drinks. In order to make a living, gas stations still have to open. The only thing that my mother relies on is her good popularity. She has a kind of strength, neither humble nor arrogant but amiable, which makes people feel like a good old man with opinions. This made many neighbors willing to chat with her and cheer on by the way. Deliberately or not, the neighbors in the neighborhood agreed that no matter how good the gas station at the mouth of the sea was, they would inevitably come to my small shop to refuel, although the refueling here was still all manual, although my mother was so bad at counting how much money she had to find for a hundred deductions of sixty-two, and she was often absent - she often had to rush home to prepare all kinds of medicines, food, and laundry for her father, but the neighbors preferred to wait there. My sister and I later went to the gas station to help. Every day when my mother cooks, my sister and I go to pump oil first - that is, we put some oil in a large Coke bottle, and the motorcycle comes to refuel, one bottle is enough, and after pumping oil, we move the oil drums that need to be moved, and try to help my mother deal with some heavy work. However, there are still heavy jobs, such as the kind of large locomotive cars, which require a whole keg for each refueling. It's big business for my family, but it's too much of a burden for my mother. Once, she carried the oil drum, halfway to the ground and sat on the ground and secretly cried, and the 60-year-old mother of the owner couldn't look at it, so she came to help, and she was covered in oil. Later, under the tacit understanding of each other, the locomotive slowly adjusted the time to refuel after half past five, which meant that my sister and I could help. In the evening, my mother, my sister and I carried the oil drum together, went home and did the left leg lift exercise with my father, and almost all of us went to sleep every night, but there was still a smile on the corner of my mouth. I threw myself into it and seemed to forget that the end was doomed to failure, destined to be an unbearable pain. But at least, after such a day, the family actually has a little savings. This makes us relax a lot, and before that, we can feel that no money brings not only the hardship of life, but also the alienation and avoidance of others intentionally or unintentionally - no matter how good the heart is, everyone is afraid of being dragged down. And this kind of look is very stimulating to the mother. Her mother was a very tough person, and if she sensed the slightest sympathy for her, she would viciously reject the kindness of others, and some people came to cheer her on with a gesture of charity, which provoked her unceremonious counterattack. This is nothing new. Usually every time there is a typhoon warning, everyone is busy tinkering, fixing the things that can be fixed, filling in the loopholes, and then closing the doors and windows, and spending a night listening to the giant beast constantly playing in front of your roof and window, listening to it completely envelop you with its breath, but it will not hurt you for half a point. As long as you don't open the door, everything seems to have nothing to do with you. It's like a 4D stereoscopic movie that God staged for the people of southern Fujian several times a year. I'm an active person, so when I was a kid, I was especially willing to play with typhoons. At that time, the wind was clean and the rain was clean, unlike now, when a little rain is contaminated, you have to be afraid of chemical pollution. When you hear a typhoon coming, open the door, shout, rush out, let the wind and rain rally around you, and then run home, wet to meet your mother's scolding.

Typhoon lies in the color of my never sadness until that year. From summer to autumn, my father began to notice that some of the things that should have happened were not happening: his left arm was still habitually curled up in front of his chest, his left leg was still in control only of his knee, and even, to his panic, his toes were losing sensation one by one. My sister likes to help him cut his nails when he sleeps, and when he accidentally cuts the flesh, the blood flows out, and his sister is so frightened that she looks for a medicine cloth to bandage it everywhere, and he still falls asleep without feeling. It's just that when I woke up, I saw the inexplicable gauze on my feet, so I stared stupidly in a daze. I could see that the frustration began to grow from that small point to the end, and finally grew into an army, which captured him part by piece. But he pretended not to know. We also pretend not to know. He was already aware of it. This unpierced sadness, like a pus-filled wound, kept accumulating and swollen, slowly, uncontrollably, and the sadness sometimes erupted - he was more demanding on time. He asked his mother to hang a big clock in the room and in the hall. Every day when he woke up, he shouted for his mother to help him up, and then he began to stare at the clock, constantly urging, he should have dressed in fifteen minutes, he should have washed him in twenty minutes, he should have helped him down the stairs in thirty minutes, he should have been ready in fifty minutes, and he should have been fed breakfast, he should have taken him to the toilet again at fifty-five minutes, and he should have stepped out of the door at eight o'clock on time...... But why is it a minute slow here and another two minutes there. He would suddenly sweep the things on the table, or hit the ground with his cane and roar: "Are you trying to harm me, are you trying to hurt me?" The first typhoon of autumn is coming. The previous afternoon, my mother and I had inspected the whole house. It was the first typhoon the family had to survive after my father's illness, the largest in years according to the weather forecast, and it made landfall precisely from our small town. The news of the leaders of the Ministry of Civil Affairs coming to the front line was broadcast on the TV station, and the CCTV reporters also felt a little regretful that the wind had not yet blown listlessly. He may be looking forward to the fact that in the storm, he is so blown by the wind that he can't stand steadily, he needs to hold on to a certain tree, and then hysterically shouts the words of the reporter from this station on the spot.

He'll get his way. Typhoons are like this, they don't make any noise before they come, and when they come, they are overwhelming. There was silence at first, then the wind began to whirl, wrapped in dust and dust, as if dancing, and then, suddenly, the storm came at one o'clock in the afternoon, like a hail of bullets. I saw that the ground on the road was carefully smashed into small holes, and the reporter on the TV began to stand in the wind and roar as he wished. My mother closed the store early and went home, and no one would have gone out on the day of the typhoon. My father also came back from his morning workout as scheduled. I got up to close the door, but my father stopped me, why is the door closed? I can't turn it off, I'm going to go out later. What are you going to do on a typhoon day? I'm going to exercise. What kind of exercise do you want to do on typhoon days? Don't hurt me, I want to exercise. Just take a day off. "Don't hurt me. "My father didn't even eat, so he took his cane and went out the door. I was so angry that I tried to grab the crutches, but he picked them up and hit me. Hit on the arm, immediately a cyan one. Mother quickly got up and closed the door. Father roared and moved to the door, his right hand trying to maintain his balance with his crutches, and his paralyzed left hand tried to open the door, but it never opened. He began to pound on the door with his cane, crying and scolding: "If you want to harm me, if you want to hurt me, you don't want me to be good, you don't want me to be good." ”

The screaming sound was as sharp as the noise of a broken tractor desperately starting. The neighbor started to have a probe and asked what was wrong through the window. I was angry, walked to the door, opened the door, you go, you go, no one stopped you. My father didn't look at me, but used his crutches to probe the point of his foot, and carefully moved his bulky body. As soon as he went out, the wind wrapped in the torrential rain swept him directly to the other side of the road like a leaf. He lay on the ground, struggling to get up. I rushed forward to pick him up, but he was clearly angry and pushed me away. Continued to struggle there alone, struggled, and finally sat down in that place. Mother silently walked behind him, pressed her body against his left side, and he slowly stood up. His mother wanted to lead him into the house, but he pushed him away and continued walking. The wind and the rain were overwhelming. His body trembled and trembled, like a bird in the rain, small and weak. The neighbors also came out, and everyone called for him to come home. As if he hadn't heard, he moved on. Moving to the corner of the previous house, a gust of wind struck, and he fell again. The neighbor tried to help him, and he pushed him away. He gave up and got up, and lay on the ground like a lizard, moving his hands and feet forward...... Eventually, he was completely exhausted, so he was helped by a neighbor and carried him home. However, after resting until four o'clock, he took his crutches again and rushed to the door. That day, he tossed like this three times.

The next day, the typhoon was still there, and he didn't want to go out or speak, and even he didn't want to get out of bed. Lying on the bed, dazed. There was no sound, but something inside him was completely broken. The voice was inaudible, but it was really. And it also has a taste, salty, floating in the house, like the steam of the sea. He lay in bed as if he was born to be there. After a few days of silence, he finally called me to the bed and said, "Can you take me to the beach on a motorcycle?" That afternoon, the whole family finally lifted him onto the motorcycle, and tied him with a piece of cloth with me, who was in charge of driving the motorcycle. The autumn sky is snow-white and snow-white, like salt. The sea is therefore particularly beautiful. I drove slowly along the embankment, and saw children roasting sweet potatoes, a few teenagers smashing wine bottles after drinking, and fishermen carrying baskets and sea hoes about to go into the sea.

My father didn't speak. I tried to pick out something to talk about. I asked, didn't I hear that the brother you took in was the best gang in the sea? The man in that boat was waving to us, was it your former little brother? He was as quiet as a plant in the back, as if he had never existed. When he got home, he said, "Okay, I'm on my mind." "I know, I think I can die. The disease broke him completely. He was like a prisoner of war waiting to be dragged to the execution ground at any moment, having accepted his fate. This despair also freed him. He no longer pretends to be strong, he will suddenly cry at his arm that he can't move, he no longer wants to abide by any rules, he sits at the door every day, and scolds anyone who walks by, and the neighbor's dog runs around him, and he beats him down with a stick when he is upset, and he unceremoniously stabs him with a cane when any child stands in his way.

He even took off the identity of a father, and began to cheat, lose his temper at will, and be coquettish like a child. In those afternoons, every time I came home from school, I often saw a group of old villagers sitting at the door, surrounding him, listening to him tell some slightly exaggerated stories, and wipe away tears. Or maybe there are different neighbors who come to the door and complain to my mother and me, and my father fights with his children or dogs. The father's image completely collapsed. My sister and I called him constantly adjusted, from "father" all the way to the nickname Ah Yuan, and even later, he was placed alongside my newborn niece, whose niece was nicknamed Xiao Lizi (petite, mellow, and cute in Hokkien), and his family called him Da Lizai. He was happy to call it that. Continue to cry about those old villagers and quarrel with the neighbor's dogs. However, death was long delayed. In anticipation of death, he spoke as if it were his last words. He will say, "I'm gone, you should pay attention to your own wife," and he will say, "I must be cremated, remember to take me wherever you go." He thought seriously for a long time several times: It's okay, I'm not here, my home is still there. I have always regarded his words as childish scorn for illness and death, and yet they still sting me. In particular, the phrase "I'm not here, home is still there" will make me angry enough to lose my temper with him. You are not allowed to say that. I'll scream at him. I'm telling the truth. Anyway, you're not allowed to say it in the future. He was silent. After a while, any person passing by, whether that person cared or not, he would say to the man, "I just told my son that I am no longer there, and my home will still be there, and he actually lost his temper with me, and I am not wrong." Then I turned around to see if I was angry enough to run to him. At first, I really didn't get used to this father who had degenerated into a child, not to mention what a strange child he was, leaving aside his identity, and he couldn't stop talking about life and death that stabbed me. But I also know that this is the best lifestyle he can find. Although death had not yet come, he had come to enjoy this way of life more and more. Slowly, the death in his mouth seemed to be no longer death, but an old friend he had not been looking forward to. He began to forget what he had decided to leave, and occasionally slipped his mouth: "Son, will you put the child in your hometown? Son, do you want me to pick up the name of your grandson?" I would ask teasingly, "Why, not die?" "Die!" he came to his senses, "I still have to die quickly." Then he smiled crookedly, and when he was not careful, saliva flowed down the left side of his mouth that was paralyzed. I learned this unfamiliar medical knowledge only after my father fell ill: when it is cold in winter, people's blood vessels will constrict. Older people tend to get tired easily, and for stroke people like my father, blood vessels constrict, which means that hemiplegia is worsening. Last winter, it became more and more inconvenient for him to walk, and several times he could not take a step with his left foot, and fell directly to the ground. The fall broke his head and bled heavily, and his whole body was bruised. At last, as the head of the family, I ordered him to stay at home this winter and not to move. He listened, looked at me like a child, blinked, and asked, "If you are obedient, can you buy my favorite braised duck to eat?" ”

(End of chapter)