The moon traveled through the white lotus-like clouds, and we sat on a high pile of grain and listened to my mother's wonderful stories. Most of the childhood in the countryside is inseparable from the land, especially the days around the Dragon Boat Festival. On the wheat field, under the stars, children are running, and parents are smiling.
When he was tired of running, he would lie on his back on the high wheat straw, look at the stars, and pestered his mother to tell stories. There is the fragrance of wheat and the warm words of mothers. At that time, my mother did not have gray hair, and there were no wrinkles on her face. The days are like the evening breeze in early summer, blowing slightly, it is happiness.
When I was a child, my mother told me many stories, but the one that impressed me the most was the pipa spirit. Pipa essence, pipa essence, eat my mother and my brother, and want to eat my sisters, that is absolutely impossible.
The details of the story have also been vaguely forgotten, and only some outlines are generally remembered. Maybe you can add something to the old folk, the beginning of the story is a bit old-fashioned.
There was once a family, the mother took her little son back to her parents' house to visit relatives, and halfway through, in the wilderness, the two met the pipa spirit. The pipa spirit likes to eat the brain marrow, and the mother and son were tragically poisoned. After the pipa spirit was full, he broke off the two fingers and ate them as snacks while going to the house.
There were also two daughters in the family, and through the crack in the door, they saw their mother, but not their brother. It was a long way to go to my grandmother's house, but my mother came back in less than half a day. So my sister asked, "Mother, why did you come back so soon?" ”
Forgot to take something. ”
Forgot what to bring? ”
Just open the door. ”
Later, my sister saw the fingers peeking out of the pockets of the pipa spirit, which were the fingers of my mother and younger brother. They know that the "mother" outside is a goblin.
There was a big tree in the yard, and the sisters climbed on it. The courtyard door was also knocked open by the pipa spirit, and when she saw the two people in the tree, she wanted to coax them down. But the sisters were not stupid, so they lied to the pipa spirit and said, "You come up." ”
Pipa Spirit said, "I can't climb trees. ”
Sister: "There's a basket there, go in and I'll pull you up." ”
Then the pipa spirit went into the basket, and when the sisters were halfway up, they let go of the rope and threw the pipa spirit to death.
**Ten Thousand Fans Incentive Plan The story is very boring, especially in my pen, and it is so embarrassing. Twenty years have passed, and I was still six or seven years old. Listen to stories that never get bored when you don't have a TV. Looking back now, the story is ridiculously naïve and full of loopholes. But at that time, he pestered his mother and said that maybe his mother was happy at that time, because he made his children happy again.
The experiences of childhood have been slowly forgotten, but there are always some profound images that are frozen in the memory. I always think of the wide wheat field, where I pillowed my mother's lap, smelled the grass of the wheat straw, looked at the stars in the sky, and listened to the evening breeze stirring the leaves of the locust tree. Maybe he will naughtily hold a wheat straw in his mouth, and quietly listen to his mother tell stories about the past.
The happiness of those years was simple and pure, as many as stars, and there were countless of them, and the only pain was going to school and homework. Today, the wheat fields have been demolished for many years, and the farmland has been leased to others. The mother gradually bent down, and her hair dried up like wheat straw.
Life is short, years are long, and the happiest time may be lying on my mother's back, she coaxes us, her voice is whispering, gentle and amiable. We always miss the past, miss the clear eyes of our mother, and miss the bits and pieces of our childhood and mother.
I don't know if the wind of spring and winter can pass through the years and bring the story told by my mother to my ears.