I haven't seen my father for more than two years, and the last thing I can't forget is his back.
That winter, my grandmother died and my father gave up his errands. It never rains but it pours. From Beijing to Xuzhou, I plan to follow my father home from the funeral. When I saw my father in Xuzhou, saw the messy things in the courtyard, and thought of my grandmother, I could not help but burst into tears. Father said: this is the case, do not be sad, fortunately, there is no other way!
When he went home to sell the pledge, his father repaid the deficit and borrowed money for the funeral. These days, the situation at home is very bleak, partly because of funerals, partly because my father is idle. After the funeral, my father wanted to go to Nanjing to seek a job, and I wanted to go back to Beijing to study, so we went together.
When I arrived in Nanjing, a friend made an appointment to stroll around and stayed for a day. The next morning I had to cross the river to Pukou, and in the afternoon I got on the bus and went north. Because of his busy business, my father had promised not to send me, but asked a tea waiter he knew well in the hotel to accompany me. He told the teahouse again and again, very carefully. But at last he was worried, afraid that the tea waiter would be inappropriate, and hesitated for a moment. As a matter of fact, I was already 20 years old that year, and I had already been to and from Beijing two or three times, so it didn't matter. He hesitated for a moment and finally decided to send me by himself. I repeatedly advised him not to go; he only said, "never mind, it's not good for them to go!"
We crossed the river and entered the station. I bought the ticket and he was busy looking after his luggage. There is so much luggage that you have to tip the porter to get there. He was busy bargaining with them again. I was so clever at that time that I always felt that he was not very beautiful and had to cut in by himself, but he finally agreed on the price and put me in the car. He chose a chair for me by the door, and I spread the seat with the purple coat he had made for me. He told me to be careful on the road and be vigilant at night not to catch cold. And asked the tea waiter to take good care of me. I laughed at him in my heart; they only recognized money and entrusted them with nothing but white trust! And for an old man like me, can't I take care of myself? Alas, I said: dad, please go. He looked out of the car and said, I'll buy some oranges. You're right here. Don't move. I think there are several sellers waiting for customers outside the fence on the platform over there. When you get to the platform over there, you have to cross the railway, jump off and climb up. My father is a fat man, so it will be more troublesome to walk there. I was going to go, but he refused, so I had to let him go. I saw him in a small black cloth hat, a black cloth mandarin coat and a dark blue cotton robe, hobbled to the edge of the railway and slowly leaned down. it was not difficult. But when he crossed the railway, it was not easy for him to climb to the platform over there. He climbed up with his hands and his feet shrank upward; his fat body leaned slightly to the left, showing a look of effort, when I saw his back, and my tears ran down quickly. I quickly wiped away my tears. I'm afraid he'll see it, and I'm afraid others will see it. When I looked out again, he had already walked back with the scarlet orange in his arms. When crossing the railway, he first scattered the oranges on the ground, climbed down slowly, and then picked up the oranges and walked. When I got here, I hastened to help him. He walked with me to the car and put the oranges on my fur coat. So I fluttered the dirt on my clothes, and I felt very relaxed. After a while, he said, "I'm going to write to you over there." I watched him go out. He walked a few steps, looked back at me and said, "go in. There's no one in there." When his back mingled with the people coming and going and couldn't be found any more, I came in and sat down, and my tears came again.
In recent years, my father and I have been running around, and the situation at home is getting worse day by day. He went out to make a living, supported himself independently, and did a lot of great things. How can I know that the old age is so decadent! He was so sad that he couldn't help himself. If you are depressed in the middle, you naturally have to send it out; family trivialities often touch his anger. He treated me differently. But in the last two years, he finally forgot my bad, just thinking about me, thinking about my son. After I came to the north, he wrote a letter to me, saying: I am safe, but my arm hurts badly. It is inconvenient to hold up my pen, and the time is not far away. When I read this, in the crystal tears, I saw the back of the fat, blue cotton robe and black cloth mandarin coat. Alas! I don't know when I'll see him again!
Appreciation of beautiful articles:
Mr. Zhu Ziqing's "figure" and "mourning for the dead woman" are called the first most affectionate literature between heaven and earth. He can reveal a deep feeling in a touch of pen and ink, without the slightest affectation, but has touching power, especially the "back", which expresses the author's deep feelings and nostalgia for his father Zhu Hongjun, deeply moves every reader, and has been included in middle school and college Chinese textbooks as modern classical prose for a long time.
However, recently, some people have criticized this American article by my husband on the Internet, denouncing it as morbid literature, clamoring that Sven should be cut from Chinese textbooks in high school and university, and so on. After reading the words posted by these people on the Internet, I could not help feeling a little dismayed and sighing several times, and I could not help but see a group of shrews with bare arms on their hips, spitting on their mouths, closing their mouths and foaming their lips, raising their feet and stretching their necks. the image of a shrew who hurled abuse in the street. If measured according to the views of these people, almost all of China's brilliant culture and art in the past five thousand years are morbid culture and art, which can no longer be seen by them. But they themselves can not come up with an article, or a piece, their own non-morbid works to feast people's eyes, why? Therefore, I not only remembered that when Lu Xun's soldiers died, the first thing the flies saw was his shortcomings and scars. They sucked and the camp shouted, thinking that they were more heroic than the dead soldiers ("soldiers and flies"). And give it to the shrews shouting in the street.
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