The red on my fingertips

The dried quilt tops have a faint smell of soap powder. I hold this end, my mother tugged that end, pulling a good frame, two people gently loose a bent bridge, and then a straight; a hand and a pull, dragged over, sent over, leaning forward and backward, shaking out the appearance of pulling a big saw, laughing can not hold the arch itch out. Once you laugh, the rhythm is greatly disrupted, your hands and arms become soft as noodles, the bottom of your feet have no roots, and your body is light and fluffy. The hand that clutches the quilt is so soft that it has no strength, and with a crash, it breaks away from the head, and the quilt's small flowers instantly roam the ground. I had to try to use my strength, otherwise, I would have been swindled to the ground. The mother seems to be angry and strange: hold on, don't laugh! The more serious you pretend to be, the more you can't help but burst into laughter. If you are tugging on the quilt with your sister, for a while, you will be tug of war with a red face and neck, and for a while, you will be like two chicks fighting over an earthworm, and when you make a bad move, you will not be able to tell who will be swindled. The clouds were laughing, the wind was laughing, the birds were laughing, and we were laughing so hard that we couldn't stand up, and the tears in our eyes were trickling down without invitation. The hens holding the eggs were infected and fluttered to our heels, clucking and laughing, and the pigs were humming in their pens picking up the leftover laughter.

The folds on the quilt bloomed in laughter. I don't know why, but stretching the quilt is a task that makes me laugh when I think about it, and it works, so I hide my laugh here and commit myself to laughing like that, so much so that the spring light fills the yard. I don't know what happened to my life, but I laughed so freely that I ran into my dreams.

The two bronze-colored cool mats were laid in the courtyard, the sun made the mats scornful and warm, and the cotton cover was gradually fluffing up on the rope. The mother was lying on her back, sewing the warm light, the clouds in the sky, and the willow-like laughs into the quilt, stitch by stitch.

The actual fact is that you can find a lot of people who are not able to get a good deal on a lot of things. I have never had the time to stay in the needle and thread, and every year I take apart the cotton clothes and quilts, and hold them to my mother, feeling that the elderly have enough patience. The actual fact is that you can find a lot of people who are not able to get a good deal on a lot of things. When my mother does needlework, I only have to run the show, thinking of those jokes about the cover: a clumsy daughter-in-law, sewing and sewing, and even sewing herself into the cover ------

If everyone expects their daughter to become a phoenix, I must have disappointed my mother. I have not been able to pull a decent pair of insoles or embroider a good flower since I was a child, but fortunately my mother did not have such extravagant hopes. My mother was used to being indulgent, perhaps thinking that if she was still around and could still move her needle and thread, she would do it for her daughter until she was old.

A glimpse of the butterflies on the surface, is the mother's red fingernails, I looked stunned. The mother, who is nearly seventy years old, has a face like a chrysanthemum, with mud stains like age spots, and the red haze on the nails, contrasting. The rich red nails, sunset-like filled the world, shiny and attractive.

The hand is thin, the knuckles are convex, the veins are like bifurcated rivers, the source is dyed with henna. The mother's hand reached out to me, a small firework blooming between the fingers, open up the beauty of the earth and sky, clear eyes, flooded with a red smile of the vicissitudes.

The nail flower is the only flower that blooms on a girl's nails with her own beauty, and the beauty continues in a wonderful way, really better than the eclipsed fading of a hundred flowers. This instantly recognizable color, who invented it? A long time ago, or even longer than that, the same color as now, the beauty of the home was passed down from generation to generation.

Times are progressing, beauty is constantly renovating its patterns, henna is no longer the only beauty on a girl's fingers, the nails are newly trendy with weird and fashionable graffiti, like colorful hair. A pair of henna invisible plain hands, no longer unusual, countless henna also do not know in which corner to hide, lonely open without a master it.

The mother, who is not willing to be beautiful and slow, is overjoyed: people on the street say I am interesting. No shyness, as if life should be so. The small fire on the fingertips, leaping out of the firewood, brightens the spirit and drives away the long and primitive darkness.

I am past the age of beauty on the fingernails. But who doesn't envy this interesting life? The words stirred in my heart from my lips, deeply envious and inexplicably sour: henna in the countryside, still quietly blooming for my mother.

The fate of my mother's broken fishing net is full of loopholes. At the age of eight or nine, in addition to the endless chores, is to carry the younger leading the older, to look after younger siblings, to be mute grandmother's knock, has become a commonplace. Mother's love is like the stars in the sky, grandfather always carrying work outside, father's love also does not solve the near worry.

The streets and alleys, hedge walls and courtyards, henna is common, homely, like the girls playing in one place, in the corners of the clusters and clusters of flowers. In that era of beauty is very simple, dyeing the nails of the girls taught to burn with emotion, glittering. Between the fingers entwined with the lingering smoke yellow, smoke yellow in a slightly melancholy beauty, in the eyes of the beauty of the hole has a yellow flower thin mood.

A little girl who was bewitched by henna, looked a little empty and climbed over the courtyard wall to pick henna. The dog barked wildly and fell off the wall in a panic, and her crotch hurt. When she returned home with a limp, her mother did not have any compassion for her, and she suspected her of running around, and even slipped dry food to her half-brother, and swung the stick mercilessly on her body. The girl also did not dodge, holding her head and crying bitterly. Legs are too painful to walk, help the family can not do work, child brides like days, live a discouraged.

Late at night, into the dark alley, in the distance came the sound of bones grinding stone, this is the legendary ghost pushing the mill it. There is an old well at the head of the village, the well water is flooded with ghostly light, sucking back the day's stars. The girl stood on the well platform, surrounded by the nostrils of death, living at the bottom of the well, the moon lady, pitying her life. The owls hooted as tightly as one, and there were summer leaves breaking away from the branches. The summer insects were silent, and an old call came from under the night sky: Xiao Xiangni, it's better to die than to live, think about it! The neighbor's mother, who was passing by, said a few words to light up her heart, and her younger siblings were holding the corners of her clothes and calling her sister, how she was reluctant to leave.

The nurse led her to an osteopathic clinic, where the doctor gently supported and lit a cigarette, and the pain in the crotch stopped. The doctor said one more day of delay, the bone grew flesh buds, the leg will be ruined.

The girl happily picked a bush of double-petaled henna under the shadow wall of the mother's house, and not only dyed herself, but also dyed her younger siblings, and to make them happy, her toenails were also dyed red. This is a girl's flower, than other makeup costs, henna really does not cost a penny. When you want to be beautiful, pick a few, add some alum and mash them up, put them on your nails and wrap them in eyebrow bean leaves. The heart's resting place, close your eyes beautifully, nails in the dream quietly drenched in red. When I woke up in the morning, the buds of the fancy dress had been cardamom in the fingertips.

If it wasn't for my mother, I really would have forgotten all about henna. The past is a shocking one, but the bridge of henna cannot be avoided. My mother wanted to die for it, but she also wanted to live it to the fullest. The beautiful henna is also a reason to live, resting on the desire and dream of immortality. Beauty is the armor of survival, for the lone brave person who insists on this to die and live.

The mute grandmother hated girls, and her mother had never heard of fairy tales, much less Cinderella's crystal shoes. Only the endurance of the rope sawing, to another inflection point in life - married. The parents arranged a child marriage, she reluctantly, welcome the bride on the carriage as if on pins and needles. The grandfather who received the bride price said: break your legs, but also to send back to your in-laws. Grandmother broke a bowl of eggs, grandmother began to love her, from the day of the wedding.

She worked in the production team during the day and did needlework at night in the shadow of the lamp. She used to say, "Your father is an accountant, I can't disgrace him. The shorter you are, the less you can work than the bigger ones. The people she worked with never suffered any loss, and when her mother worked with someone to pull a cart, she always let others sit on the empty cart. Therefore, all the daughters-in-law and girls in the village liked her. When I woke up in the middle of the night, I often saw my mother lying on the corner of the table asleep, with her shoes resting on her hands. A bean of light, also tired of labor.

My mother's needle and thread box was not fixed, if there was a new paper box, those needle and thread bits and pieces were constantly moved into the brand new home. There was a wealth of content in the needle and thread box, and if you looked for a thimble, there were definitely several spare ones lying around. She was busy going to work for the production team all day and had no time to spare, so she had to do everything in one step. The needle is inserted diagonally on a piece of foam board, wearing a section of black or white thread, long, just in case, touching up to sew up the holes in the clothes accidentally scratched.

The needle and thread box is filled with colorful cloth, red silk, soft sarong, all ready to be tied in pigtails for the daughters. There were also buttons of various colors and shapes. My favorite thing about these crystal-clear plexiglass is that they have the light of beads and shells and the color of onyx. Dump it out, pick up a princess buckle to capture the light, replace the air, and imagine how beautiful it is from the clothes, after a fantastical journey, flowing into my home needlework box. There are not many little lovey-dovey found buttons, paired in pairs, never matched up and pinned to our clothes. They were so beautiful that they were pinned on old clothes. We couldn't afford to buy new clothes, so we were content to sew on a beautiful button.

My mother loved colorful things too much, colored cigarette boxes, candy paper, saved up and folded into butterflies. Put on the red head rope, hanging in front of the window, the wind to blow, fluttering, clear windows, more beautiful cloak. Sometimes, the roadside throw silk, plastic fake flowers, to the hands of the mother, wash it clean, trimmed with needle and thread, placed on a few cases, the dark house, magically brightened up. In those days, the family did not have the luxury of buying flowers, picked from the flower garden in front of the door, or the flowers of the countryside, on both sides of the clock to look at each other not tired. The first time I entered the house, the arrangement that lit up my eyes became my initial aesthetic education lesson.

When I went back to my grandmother's house, if I could tie three bows on my braids, my mother would never tie two. As a child, I was so mixed up with beauty, but still remembered the compliments of the adults: look at Shani dressed up as a child, like a little girl in town. My mother was so happy to hear that if she had the time, with her unique aesthetic, she would have tied me from head to heel. It's good that the daughter never grows up, so she can take the trouble to exert her mind on the ideal of beauty. Growing up, my daughter felt that the red silk tied on the tips of the braid was tacky and refused. The daughter does not like red clothes, but prefers plain clothes. When the streets are popular foot-stomping pants, are dressed like a ballerina, I prefer men's princely pants, my mother really can not correct my strange beauty, had to go to dress the youngest daughter who has not grown up, and a small family.

Although life is not lacking in monotony and hardship, my mother has her own idea of living and breathing. The moonlight held up the red thread, bunches of girls always surrounded her, the sweetness of those sugars, mostly from their love stories flowing. Mother is like a messenger, the girls often do some needlework for her, encouraging her to run errands and send messages. I called all the young men who came to my mother's house my uncle. They were called "Sister Xiang" and "Sister Xiang", hoping that my mother would find a match for them. It was a time when you couldn't fall in love without a bride, right? Parents were watching their daughters like the KGB, and the integrity of marriage depended on the pivotal matchmaker. So, in order to free up my mother to run errands, some uncles became temporary workers for my family. Cut wheat, plant corn, work especially hard. The floor was swept by bell-bottom pants, and the long hair was tossed around, all thinking they had Miura Tomokazu's style. I don't know how lazy I am at home, but my parents don't support me, and I sweat all over my own work, while doing other people's work, and the hallucinogenic sweetness that I spill. Some people spread gossip in the street, saying that the mother is good to eat the food in the eyes of the mill. The father is not very supportive, after all, also delayed the family some things. The mother did not want to see others follow the old path of arranged marriage. The company is also unable to withstand the softness of the people, every time to weigh the radish, the professional sense of smell of the pair of green onions, but also make the mother can not stop. It is said that the conclusion of a good marriage is better than building a temple, and the temple in front of her can be considered spectacular.

My mother was in love with new things, and had long been attracted to a sewing machine, second-hand, small bee brand, the rest was a matter of money. So, day and night, she worked like a bee. When I went down to cut grass, a dung-skin of grass was packed round and round, and my short mother was hidden in the grass, like grass wrapped in her green cloud. A green cloud was seen moving, floating past the village road. Day after day, the haystack in front of the house blew up like a huge air. The small mountain bale like hay for part of the money, and then pick up some small hardware factory dumped scrap metal. In short, the monkeys wear glasses, the ditch and the trench are what. Finally, I saved enough money to fulfill my dream. My mother stepped on the sewing machine and easily made clothes for us and pieced together flowered school bags with scraps of cloth. The patches were mended, the edges of the cloth were locked, and the neighbors on the street and near the door said goodbye to the slow pace of threading the needle.

The two arms of my mother, one in front of the other, were like two rakes, swinging constantly, as if there was something in front of us that would be preempted by others if we did not hurry. The sun is a golden shuttle, the moon is a silver shuttle, weaving a robe of mountains and rivers. The mother is a wooden shuttle, vertical and horizontal, weaving a home that does not run wind and rain. The actual fact is that you will not be killed by reality, you will be killed by the reality that is not as good. Mother and fate arm-wrestling, I always want a glimpse of the mystery of the survival clockwork device in that petite body. Own rake on firewood, sore legs, sagging hands, practicing mother's mantra.

Mother always said not to tie knots when stringing thread, taboo that knot will bring others to the heart. I always failed to remember that once I threaded the needle, I tied a dead knot by hand.

At that time, in my romantic utopia, the spirit of the world of perspective, how can be in a needle and thread, rice, oil and salt in the mundane? My mother never asked me to learn these women's crafts, but she was only worried about what she could not replace her daughter to do, especially a daughter who did not fit in well.

The mother often used to look for something to see what her daughter was working on, but when she saw my cold, indifferent expression, she didn't dare ask more questions and withdrew hesitantly. I like to stay inside, read the books that I can find, and write in my diary. There were many knots in my heart that I couldn't untie, but I was too shy to reveal anything to her. My mother was not a sister or a friend, and I felt that even if I did, I wouldn't know that corner of my heart. I was lonely and longed for some guidance and help, thinking that my mother, who was illiterate, was okay with matchmaking and would not understand my pain and pursuit. My mother did not compare me with other girls, did not make me do this or that, some of the work arranged by my father, she could do alone, all quietly do it by themselves. When I was young, I didn't understand the shade of the blades of grass bending down.

The first thing you need to do is to take a look at the actual website. When I became a mother myself, I realized that I could not enter the inner world of my child, which is really an unspeakable pain and helplessness. The company's main goal is to provide a better solution to the problem. When she looked back, the knot tied in her mother's needle and thread, a few more in her heart. The indifference of the past, the small saw-like pull on the heart, gushing out of guilt. From the needle nose through the days of ah!

The daughter can not get married, really a matchmaker's biggest life failure, a daughter who is always waiting for the word, but also a mother's heart disease. Now I understand the anxiety of having nowhere to talk about it, thousands of times more depressing than the words I'm waiting for.

I have always thought of myself as a person with a faraway place, and the life in the pen and ink book will never overlap with my mother. Seeing the angry red on my mother's fingernails, not allowing myself to turn into darkness in the night, but into a ray of light of the love, only to understand their own genes, the source.

The red on the fingertips, perennially covered with grass juice, mud wears off, and fades away in the dishwater day after day. A small woman in the countryside is like a stream of water, no red rose to mosquito blood sour, can not taste the rice sticky to white rose of the individual taste. The mother, with her own different buds that are open to the old age, crosses the world of great vulgarity and beauty.

I stand on my tiptoes and try to approach the light of the earth, red in my pencil. When I was a child, my mother used to dye henna for me, and this moment has dyed my life.