Think of my father.

Every time he went to the countryside to sweep the youth, my father always went back to the village school he had taught in that year. While listening to the long-lost ring tone, it seems like contemplation; while climbing into the school room, I touch the clear blackboard and look down, as if looking back. Then hobbled down, and found a side of green grass to sit quietly, affectionately watching those familiar and strange, laughing children, for a long time, do not give up to leave.

It was a deep winter when tears can fill hunger, and outside the village, there will always be gusts of cold wind gathering pieces of dead leaves flying all over the ground. It was also a chaotic era of black and white upside down and random struggle. In broad daylight, there will always be scenes of panic.

Streets and lanes, fields and ridges, groups of assembled and flustered revolutionary faces are so brilliant and proud. He (she) waved tea high, shining medals high, hysterically excited, running, crazy. They walked bravely but wearily, door to door, restless. The shouts of cattle, ghosts and serpents rub their hands; red and black learn right and wrong, making people timid all day long.

In those years, many helpless and innocent people always hide in the face of him (her), or listen to sin or leave their hometown. Always secretly sad with thick haze, keep crying, keep asking the sky. Swallow the broken home in your stomach and wet your heart in the pillow. Lesser Snow in 1970, his father said, it was a light day.

The sun in the mountains is warm through the bamboo forest, high in the rain and wet, and the village has never been beautiful; the smoke of the tile top is faint around the mountain green, far condensed into a cloud, fresh and quiet; honest neighbors secretly smile and whisper blessings, quietly interpret to leave, never the warmth of the world. At this bittersweet moment, when my father was criticized while working, he added a crying worry and hunger. But with the relief of the vicissitudes of life, his father said that he seemed to have looked down on the meal room that night between the leftist revolution and the right slap. In the dilapidated courtyard of his family, there were more than a dozen high men in the courtyard, saying that it was the notice of the Revolutionary Committee, and that they would listen again, and the deep revolution would go right away.

They savagely snatched their father's bowls and chopsticks, pushed him into the car with his hands tied, and then rolled the dust away. Mother is so used to panic that she can't squeeze out a tear. But the young elder and second elder sister danced and stamped their feet, howling and crying. It will take a long time to cling to my mother and go to sleep.

At midnight that night, the father said that the father of the clothes list was blindfolded and later put on the wooden platform surrounded by thousands of people, and was severely kicked off the two-meter-high trial platform amid shouts of artillery hitting stinky Nine. With the help of several students who had been taught, he survived the coma on the street. People who fell in that era rarely got back on their feet.

In fact, my father was not the so-called cow ghost and snake god in those days. The absurdity of stinky old nine separates a lot of sadness. My father is a poor peasant with good interests. He lost his mother at the age of seven. Foster care at the age of 8. Just because he had read more yearbooks and was employed in an ignorant township education, many of his classmates who already had official positions had a lot of contacts, so they were carved into a list of criticism of the black school, regardless of time. The stars move and the rain ripples.

The sky of havoc is already sunny. The years are like a sharp knife, engraving my father's life full of vicissitudes of life. Lesser Snow is fading away, and heavy snow is coming. The sentimental haze of that chaotic era often hurts the heart.

Author: sun Zhen