The flowers have withered.
She lives downstairs from me. We didn't remember her when we met her. Fortunately, there is another photo that preserved the past-I was sitting on the bed at the age of two and a half, holding her rigidly as a baby, just like holding a slightly older doll. She is not good-looking, with dark complexion, flat forehead, thick lips and slightly squint eyes. But her voice is unusually loud, like a silver bell, without any milk smell. At that time, adults said that she would be a singer in the future.
She is passionate and willful. I can't stand both of them. If it's too good or too noisy, I'll rush out the door. But her pigeon-like expression and fox-like cunning attracted me very much. As a result, the storm between the two children often comes quickly and goes simply.
But I am most afraid of her crying, because once she cries, she will be stubborn. When she is tired, her voice will sink, but she won't stop easily. I was surprised at that time, where she was, and she could hide so many tears that she could take them with her and never dry up. However, her eyes are very bright, and I don't know why she often washes with tears. Once, I was really fed up with her endless crying upstairs and rushed down angrily. I saw her sitting among a pile of toys and shouting at me, "I'm so lonely!" " "That afternoon, I have been combing my hair horns and beads for a lonely crying four-year-old girl, wasting two boxes of colorful mud.
In fact, I don't often look like my sister. I often feel depressed because she broke one of my dolls or tore one of my books. At this time, she is as still as a flower, trying to stretch out one soft petal after another, which makes my heart itch and soft. After reconciliation, she always laughs for a long time, as if to release all those smiles that she just suppressed.
Because she is active, she always doesn't like to wear skirts and always throws them at me. With a little selfishness, I hope more people will give her skirts instead of shorts during the festival.
When I was in primary school, she got leukemia for no reason. In the next few years, she has been taking medicine, infusion, blood transfusion and chemotherapy. She has been having a fever, pain or unable to walk, and she has been clamoring for me to play with her when she is a little energetic. Every time she calls me, she must first emphasize: "Sister, my illness is not contagious."
Later, she spent most of her time in the hospital. Her ignorant expression, childish words, her noise, her tears, her loud voice, everything left me.
My mother took me to see her when she lived in the Institute of Hematology. Her hair is all gone, and her arms are covered with needles of all sizes. I can only talk to her through a green mask. She doesn't really understand what happened to her, but I do. She was wearing a hat, so I helped her take it off. I said, you look better without hair. You look like a boy. When I left, she leaned against the door frame and cried badly. I looked back at her again and again in the corridor with a strong smell of lysol. In that cold world, she is too young, too lonely and too helpless. Later, her condition deteriorated and she was transferred to the central hospital. When I visited her again, I brought her a big box of vanilla ice cream and a talking doll. It was very hot in the ward, and the ice cream accompanied me to cry silently. She was pitifully wrapped in various instruments and pipes. Hormones and chemotherapy completely changed her appearance. She didn't call me sister, and she didn't even have the strength to call me. I was ten years old at that time, and I really wanted her to sit up and yell at me. I would rather she was overbearing and unreasonable, and I would rather destroy all my toys for her. I'd rather be ridden by her on the ground, as long as she can sit up immediately and call me sister kindly.
Soon, she died, on a morning without warning. All the memories of her came to an abrupt end here. Maybe in another world, she doesn't need any more injections to take medicine, no more hair loss, no more painful puncture and no more crying. Maybe she will give birth to wings and fly like an angel. Perhaps, she will remember that she had a little sister like me in a previous life. After she died, I never went to her house again, and her parents never invited me to her house again. I understand that I have too many images about her, too many fragments about her. I understand, but I'm still sad for a long time. Then her family moved away. Later, I heard that she had another sister, healthier, more beautiful and smarter than her, but I never heard her call me sister.
Whenever spring comes, I see those flowers in full bloom, from white to pink, from pink to red, so bright that they almost burn. I will stubbornly believe that these flowers, this bright little sun, must come from my childhood.
Grandpa's gone
Grandpa, the warmest and longest part of the river bed in my memory firmly occupies the center of my memory, but I dare not touch it easily. People will always experience some lost lives in their lives. Perhaps, this is fate deliberately tempering our ability to bear pain. Grandpa died in the winter when I was eleven. I have always thought that if there is anything optimistic about me, it must come from my grandfather's inheritance. Grandpa is not only knowledgeable, but also generous and honest. He has been a university president all his life, but his favorite is his classical literature. His philosophy of Confucius and Mencius, philosophy of Laozi and Zhuangzi, and his love for writing are also typical pedantic and lofty intellectuals. In the last few days of grandpa's life, his strong will was so extreme that even doctors who are used to seeing life and death can't help admiring it. When grandpa left, he was very calm and serene, which was the last kindness he left us. In just a few seconds, for the doctor, from the duty room to the hospital bed, for my grandfather, it is from one world to another. I wonder what he was thinking at the last moment of his life. However, he can't tell me any more. Only his heavy breathing with whistling sound, his familiar close-fitting breathing, and his outstretched arm in hallucination always sting my present like a needle, and then hurt my future sadly. My young heart is full of real and bitter sadness. After a long time, walking on the road, I felt that every old man who passed by me was like my grandfather. But then it was a deep disappointment. Because, I know, if it was really my grandfather, he would never pass me by like this. He will definitely let me lie on his knees and tell me the stories of those immortals. Grandpa, are you sure you don't want to tell me those interrupted stories?
The warm pen is still there, but the grandfather holding it is gone; That simple shirt is still there, but the grandfather who wore it is gone; Those wonderful stories are still there, but the grandfather who told them is gone; My classmate's grandfather is still here, but mine is gone. An invisible breath of life is still wandering among these familiar objects, which can only be understood and not touched.
Grandpa's favorite sentence is: "Xiao Di, you have read so many books, why do you still write your composition like this?" Probably afraid of hurting my self-esteem, every time, he pretends not to care, but his expression is serious and his brow is full of pedantry. It seems that this is a major event that bothers him.
Six months after my grandfather died, I published my first article in the newspaper. How I want to hear him say happily, "Xiao Di, you really didn't read so many books for nothing!" " "But no, it won't happen again.
When I am lonely, I will write to my grandfather, and then I will write back to myself in his name. This conversation between me and God continued until I went to middle school.
On a moonless night, when others were busy burning money to send cold clothes, I burned some articles published in magazines about my grandfather on a small piece of soft land. I watched the wind roll up ashes. I know, grandpa. He must know what I think.
But my letters to and from heaven are never willing to burn.
Sometimes walking in the street, Grandpa's strong local accent suddenly sounded behind me, "Xiao Di!" "My hurried footsteps stopped immediately. I'm sure that's grandpa, because only he calls me that. However, I can't see where he is. Sadness hit me, but I didn't immediately get it from my eyes. Instead, I spun around in my thoughts and kept hitting my chest.
Short-lived beauty and sadness, but it takes a lifetime to remember or forget. —————————————————————————— I hope you are satisfied.