Village Night
Less than six o'clock in the lazy years, the sun hangs on the early branches. The sparrows' spirits disregard humans as the deep sky blue and gray set off the soft light of the sun. Dust surrounded the flying swing creeping cars finally stopped; after patting off the dust, I got off into an open field that swept into view. The earth's green young wheat cringes at the site, ridge after ridge neat, pitifully waiting for any wind to comb through it. Bare trees stand nearby, dim, friendly, and familiar. Not in the village, all the sun dissolved into the dark red and dark gray sky, making a crisp sound, seemingly telling me: don't come back for the New Year. For me, the excitement and expectations of the New Year have gone, replaced by more responsibility to return to accompany my old father.
Opening the door, my father bent into the room carrying his pot, trying to see me, surprised for a moment, then laughed at the vicissitudes and asked: "Isn't it too late?" In the lonely courtyard, the origin of my life's journey is surrounded by large housing estates, yet the neighborhood feels so shabby. The old southern house faces the old northern house with blackened windows and doors, seeming to blame me for delaying my return. The old jujube tree humbly flaps its branches trembling in front of the north rooms. Elm branches squat sleepily as chickens cuckoo a few times before falling asleep.
My kind father served me sharp rice in a bowl while sitting on a small stool in front of the furnace stage, giving himself a little. I spoke about things in the village, and his eyes did not wander, patiently chewing without finishing a meal, followed by moving wrinkles. The dark bulbs seem to make the room quieter. I slowly savor my father, listening to the unheard loneliness of the elderly. Smoke blackened the ceiling occasionally with the sound of mice running. A seven-inch black-and-white television flickered, casting a variation of shadows shaking.
In the middle of the night, from behind came a family of partners; my father snored loudly on the kang. The TV screen flashed with snow, so I turned off the TV, got into bed, but my father’s snoring kept me awake. I hoped for a scene from the New Year. My father turned, and his snoring grew smaller. Another call rang outside the window, the paper vibrating with a chilling hit. I hurried to bind my clothing tightly, thinking of the superior heating in the city rooms, feeling increasingly cold.
For a long time, watching my father's calmness, I blamed myself for being so squeamish. Outside, the wind ceased, and the world fell silent like ice. Feeling my ears buzzing like Naruto, I got confused and woke up.