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Liu Guoxin, female, born in 1985 in fugu, Northern Shaanxi. He is a doctor of literature of Nanjing University. Now he works in the College of literature of Shaanxi Normal University, teaching and writing as a student for entertainment. His works include city guest, second life, etc.
”When the new year's snow came to me, it was about dusk. I felt it from the gradually cold temperature in the room. The thick black shadow, like a wave, forced me to my room from the far side of the mountain. The whole city was shrouded in such fog, like a pile of rubble. When I was living in the country, I seldom saw such gloomy and gloomy weather except for the strong wind. However, it is also surrounded like this, which makes my room like a lonely house on the earth, and makes me miss those two houses that I abandoned in the deep mountains even more.
No one will stop to look at the ruins. The view of the boundless dark and lonely two rooms only moves on my heart. To this day, everything is left behind. As a kind of remains, but I still secretly pray, do not change, do not. As if I could go into those two rooms and return to my life at that time.
My grandparents who have worked for many years have been deeply buried in the earth, and I am used to the sadness and loneliness of that mountain. But even so, in the night, especially in the snowy winter night, I always seem to fall into a kind of timidity and uneasiness, and I have to spend a lot of time to miss that fragment of tile ruins. I pray that there will not be too much rain, too much snow, or an earthquake; my two houses, which will hardly be pushed apart, will not collapse, nor flatten, nor build, nor cover. I just want a kind of keep, one day success.
Snow is hidden in the night. From the high-rise building where I live, the two houses in my childhood are like a big ball hanging in the northwest. In addition, it was snowing all over the world, no smoke, no people on the road, no path to the two houses, of course, no fire in my childhood. There was no sign of life in the two houses in my view. However, I look out from here, in the heavy snow, as if I could still walk back there.
Over the years, my brother, my sister, my mother, my uncle, what do they think when they walk through these two living huts? Like me, suddenly tighten up, or hide your mood under the moss and Artemisia, without showing any extra feelings?
We haven't mentioned the two houses for years. My uncle had a suggestion like that. He wanted to build two houses. Is it next to these two rooms, or do you want to tear them down? He never specified his idea or implemented it at all. After my uncle left these two rooms, he still kept sheep here. When it's dark, he will also press the flashlight and drive the sheep past the two houses. Has he been attracted to them again? Do you have tears and sighs? The house hasn't completely collapsed, and the rotten weeds keep its melancholy. In our collective pretended forgetting, they stand together, looking after each other with the jujube trees in the yard, as well as the Artemisia selengensis and lichen, which are once again green every year.
My memory may not be fake, but I do not want to turn around. It's too late: the road is flooded, the snow is flying, covering my way. The walls and roofs were broken, the windows did not fall, but the frames of the doors and windows were scattered, the back half of the house collapsed, and the living cat survived but fell. Like me? At the moment, all of this clearly fell into my eyes. The desolation of my eyes overlaps my betrayal, and my forgetting makes this place like a graveyard. People in the city imagine the dilapidation of the countryside. They don't know that the grass has been returned to the grass. They have captured those courtyards and desecrated every family's memories.
On holidays, I occasionally go back to this old village, but sometimes I don't go back all year. Most of the people in the village are the same as me. They don't care? Wherever they have money, they go, embracing the town's squares and tall buildings, as well as white porcelain toilets. I'm such a runaway. It's just this tormented haze day, and it's just such a snowy night. I saw these two lonely houses by the snow light, and I couldn't get back to God for a while.
The broken roof, the twists and turns of the dead grass, has been unoccupied for several years. For years. My family is in the area around the jujube forest. I can see the jujube trees standing in silence in the snow. They will not block my vision. As no one took care of it, the waterways of the upper house entered the courtyard, and the upper house, already two old people in their seventies, was slightly ill and panting. Their children had already left their homes, and they could no longer let the land recover. The water flowed freely in the courtyard, eroded the trunk and gave birth to moss. I saw it all in summer when I was herding sheep. The old grain houses made of mud and wood have completely collapsed, and the big urns in the ruins have also been buried under the ground. People seem to know that no one will live here.
If I go to push the door at this moment, the rusty lock ring will break the peace of the late village, and I will shudder, after all, it will disturb the rest of the dead. All the people left behind have set up graves for themselves. I will not frighten myself. I am more afraid than anyone to hear the echo of the lock ring and to be awakened by the dead in the whole village.
For a few seconds, it seemed to me that my father, my grandmother and grandfather were still living in this room. I must restrain the tears left behind, restrain the too fast heartbeat, and I must let myself survive these long seconds.
Once there was a pot of cacti in this room, but it dried up. I remember what it looked like. Would it be right behind the door, waiting to sting me?
The door is a wooden door, and the lock is an iron ring. The lock can be pushed open like waste wood. It seems that if I hold a flashlight, I can light up the fire in the room. Will I rush through the debris underground for fear? I don't think I dare. I don't even have the strength to push the house away. Just think about it, I have to bear the sudden chill and its slow decay.
Dare I lie on the Kang with my clothes, which I had been sleeping in my childhood? Dare you lie on the dry moss and bird's dung?
I seem to remember the sound of the urn being put down by the door. Mother can't live any longer. She climbs in - we dare not mention it for years to come. Has she decided to abandon us, and then it has been implemented? It's strange that I can still remember that. After many years, on a snowy night. Fear pierced my eyes, I beat the water stains on her desperately, her eyes that looked at me directly were so cold, as if I had destroyed her plan and her eternal sleep. I can't forget my mother's emptiness at that time, or her gasping. We have no tears.
Those long, long hours. The most fearful and lonely time in my life.
At that time, the next door family had moved away for several years. Something happened before, and a lot happened after.
They left in the autumn of a certain year, the grain was harvested, the sheep were pulled up, the pigs were killed, the dogs and children were in a tent made nest, and they left. They left the village before dawn. The farewell had already been carried out. No one said goodbye. Later, the old man who left died, the eldest son who left, the daughter-in-law who left, and the children who left grew up.
No one can see through my pain at that time. Strange and familiar neighbors, let me experience the first farewell in my life. In this way, they pulled food, people and dogs on a dilapidated car, one meter away from the village.
I remember the crow on the top of the cliff in his house called an old man away, and they were ready to leave after that. For several years, in the adjacent courtyard on the right of my home, Artemisia grass grew into the door, the electric poles were cut off, the trees were cut off, and someone fed chickens in his house. Su family of an outdoor village lived in the courtyard for a short time, but was soon driven away because the mistress's affair was discovered by the housewife of the village. Or I can't remember, she has a more beautiful romance, so she took the initiative to leave. The wind in this yard is always so strange. The yard can always hold the wind and crows. In the middle of the bird's body, the wind came here roaring again and again.
One night, I saw the light on in the abandoned house. The moonlight is bleak and the wind is heard all over the yard. The middle-aged woman in the neighbor's house on the left shared this terrible secret with me. She is too old for me. In front of this cold fact, many years later, I think of her pale face at that time. And suddenly the light came on, and suddenly it went out, in the evening. In fact, the pole was broken.
That is to say, it makes us feel estranged. At that time, we were all afraid to say the word "ghost". Although there is nothing new in our country life, we may not hope to meet ghosts.
During that time, I fell into a deep magic barrier. I dare not close my eyes every night, like embedding myself in a frozen frame, a square coffin, and recalling the suddenly bright and dark light. At last, my grandmother inspired me and I felt better.
In the end, all the days I lived in my childhood in this village, I would often suddenly feel the possibility of ghosts. It's like an old white snow tent, cursing the small village I live in, making my village look helpless and lonely. It's like the myths and fairy tales of the distant times I see in the book. This kind of feeling is so real, as if I've been out of the small village all my life. It's doubtful. The snow covered village, which stores the warmth of the fire in these two houses, also stores my fear, seems to have substance and its weight.
The urn used to hold water is my deepest fear of this house, but it is also my greatest gratitude to live in this house for more than ten years, and it is the source of our family's life. Later it opened a hole and was put in the courtyard. Now it's broken to pieces, and it's part of the tomb of this hut.
This sad urn, once made me difficult, full of fear for these two houses.
Up to now, I am still afraid of large-scale water holding tools. Facing the open-air swimming pool with blue sky and white clouds, the shock of seeing the big urn falling to the ground is still fresh and fresh. It seems that the debris has pierced my body, and now it still gives off its heterogeneous luster. Years are full of dust, destroying all my life here and my faith in rural life. However, some smells, colors, sounds, even a crazy flash of lightning, or a slight collision of lint and roadside hay can make the past clear. These are not memories at all. The urn is broken. I hold the cold tile and feel like a force under the ground holding me. At that time, I was frozen in that house, at a loss, until now.
If the two houses are burned down by a fire, the dry grass can really