Old time on paper

The mother finally made up her mind to sell the old books that were useless at home.

She is very old, an old photo, an old clothes, can evoke her memory. The people who read at home, like the swallows, flew one by one, leaving two old people guarding the nest. But the book is still much. The textbooks we have read, from elementary school to university, the mothers feel important; the comic books I have seen in childhood, as well as some old magazines, are also collected in many books. The mother kept these books and sent the trivial time that followed.

I wondered how to collect waste products. “How do you have so many books in your family?” This sentence is enough to make the mother proud for a long time. “Two college students have read books for more than ten years. Can you not have more?” Now, the village can pick up With so many books, I am afraid that only my mother is alone. I don’t know when, reading is suddenly not fashionable. Many children graduated from junior high school and went out to work to earn money. Parents are also willing to have a helping hand to earn money. The fragrance of the book in the village is getting weaker and lighter.

Big Brother picked a few full-length comic book collections, and also put them in the sun to dry and disinfect. I think he is a child in the sun. It’s strange to say that it’s been useless for thirty or forty years. When I’m going to sell it, I’m suddenly worthy.

I don’t give up, pick and choose, find out a few “Selected Works of Mao Zedong.” Because of the thick, the mother brought the shoes like that. There are still one or two old shoes, which are left behind. Yang raised a paper shoe and asked his mother: “Would you like it?” The mother was more confused than me. Asked me, “I have spent all my eyes, what else does it do? Which one are you willing to wear the shoes I made?” Silent, they used to be role models, the mother compared them, cut the paste of the cloth into the shape of the sole, the upper, and then stitched together. My childhood lullaby is the “squeaky” sound of the mother when she smashes the soles. Mother’s young days are entrusted to them.

The hands and feet of the waste were taken care of, and the mother’s eyes were also sick. She picked out a few local yellow brochures, which was the work record of the father when he went to work. Mother put them together and took off the dust on the cover. I find it interesting. My father has been retiring for so many years. Is the workbook still useful? I picked up a copy of the book, my father’s words are very large, very individual, not written on the horizontal line, but in line, and slightly right oblique.

“It’s no wonder that someone at the time wants to call you a rightist. When you look at your words, you know that you have a rightist tendency.” I pointed to the words in the workbook and wanted to make my father happy. He was burying his head.

Killing the chicken in the morning, the kitchen knife swayed for several rounds on the chicken neck, and did not smother the chicken neck. The chicken did not kill, but the father was very angry with himself. Knocking, the knife is not used, and people are not used. The mother quietly counted him: just don’t accept the old. He lowered his head and grinded the knife without saying a word, as if he was getting stronger with the sharpening stone.

The book was collected into several large snakeskin bags and thrown into the tricycle and towed away. Pity in my heart is like a farewell to marry a daughter. When the book is sold, it will be labeled as a prototype and turned into pulp. I don’t know which book it will be born into? Will I find it again?

Mother likes to get rid of mildew in the summer. I can always have a windfall, copying some “past memories” from the mother’s box.

Two thin papers, the size of the certificate, are the marriage certificate of the father and mother. Was pressed by the mother’s end to the bottom of the box, the paper color was yellow, and the printed safflower on the certificate was bright. On these two sheets of paper, it records the 50 years of ups and downs that father and mother have walked hand in hand. Two strange young people, after the approval of these two papers, came together. After years of grinding, like two old trees, the roots are wrong, can’t understand who is the root?

Suddenly I want to leave some paper, a black-and-white photo with a note, a plain letter with a long-lasting love, or a signed-up book. After a few years, I miss it.

Years of circulation, the old time on these papers, lingering.

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