An orange-red autumn color

The old house has a relatively long distance from the front door to the backyard, with housing in front and behind. The kitchen and the front house were closely connected. When my mother lived in the front house, she took two or three steps to the right out of the house and was at the front door, where she could see her neighbors and passers-by at any time. If you take a step to the left out of the house, you will enter the kitchen, where you will have to deal with pots and pans three times a day.

There was a large window on the north wall of the kitchen, and when you looked out of the window, you could see a persimmon tree. Then there is an unobstructed view of the open courtyard and the striking vermillion gate of the house behind. The door is usually closed because no one usually lives behind it. There are no pets such as chickens, ducks, cats and dogs in the house, and the whole compound has no sound. The neighbors' cats occasionally come in silently, "meow", wagging their tails around the courtyard, and then quietly leave the door when they feel no one is paying attention. Other than that, most of the time, the house is empty. My mother's home range of activities is basically the front half of the home. The only living people and things left in the house were my mother and the only persimmon tree in the yard.

I vividly remember that my father planted this persimmon tree. It started out as a weak, low sapling, and there were a dozen family members, young and old, gathered around it in anticipation of its growth. Nearly two decades later, the persimmon tree has grown so thick with its mottled trunk that it is taller than the roof of the house. A small part of the branches were covered with tiles on the eaves, and a large part of the branches were stretched over the yard. It has been many years since my father and grandmother died, and the older children and youngest children have left the house to have their own lives. During the winter months of the year, my mother and my brother's family lived in the city. In the spring, summer and fall, my mother lived in the old house. When my mother was there, home was there. So every year, I was able to witness the reproduction process of persimmon trees sprouting, blossoming and hanging fruit in my hometown. Thus, in the stream of time, I also witnessed the vicissitudes of the years and the beautiful myth of this persimmon tree.

Winters in the north are strangely cold. The countryside is even colder in the northern winter. The persimmon tree, with all its leaves fallen, stays in our courtyard and becomes our most fond remembrance. I have no way of knowing its joys and sorrows, but I can imagine its glory bathed by the cold moon, its jonquil branches adorned by the flying snow, its dark brown face growing bravely in the alternation of white and day. Then, spring returns to the earth. When we returned to the old house with my mother in the spring, the old house was covered with dust, which made my heart cold and desolate. When I walked into the yard, I looked up and saw the new buds coming out of the brown, scaly branches of the persimmon tree, glowing green in the sunlight, and my cold heart warmed up like it had thawed. It turned out that the persimmon tree had come to life and our yard had been brought back to life again.

After a while, the goose-yellow persimmon blossoms were in full bloom, with a gentle and elegant demeanor, and their pretty branches were lovable. There are also some mischievous flowers hidden in the middle of the broad leaves, shimmering and mysterious in the most striking way. Such simple and lovely flowers are almost invisible in the city. For a long time, I was inexplicably obsessed with the osmanthus trees planted in the city. Sometimes I had to stand in front of them for a long time to see the flowers. But I really didn't like the strong scent of the osmanthus, but I liked it and didn't know what to think. One day, after I came home and saw the persimmon flowers again, I suddenly found the answer. The color of persimmon blossoms is similar to that of osmanthus, and the blooming branches are all crowded together, the same lively and lively. But it turns out to be the love of trees and trees! Since then, seeing the osmanthus trees in town, I seem to have found another hope for life.

The flowers faded soft yellow green persimmon small. The small green persimmons are like fermented buns when they meet the sun and rain, gradually expanding and growing. The bulbous look is like a child's green face, as if they are about to tell a vivid story to the people, but they can't help but laugh, but try to hold it in. At this time of the year, people from the village would come to the house to talk to my mother, and as they talked, their feet would involuntarily move from the front room to the courtyard, looking up at the persimmons on the branches, pointing and commenting on them. The persimmons, which had been holding back their energy, finally overcame the shyness of the commentary and blushed a slight orange-red. In a short time, the whole tree becomes red. The red persimmons hanging from the branches look like big fiery lanterns by day and warm little suns by night. In this way, it is not the thought of gluttony that gives me the power of warmth.

The raw, orange-red persimmons need to ripen slowly in the warm, swallowing water. When the persimmons are red, it is the time to harvest the corn. I always think vividly of nights like that, when the weather was slightly chilly and maybe there was a light rain in the sky. All of us sat around peeling the corn stalks we had broken in the field during the day, listening to commentaries on the radio and talking about our family gossip. There were many persimmons warming in the large iron pot in the kitchen. From time to time, my mother got up to add a handful of firewood to the stove so that the fire would stay lit. While waiting for the persimmons to ripen, we have become accustomed to restrain our excitable natures, and over time, have become patient enough to go beyond the night.

This evening, late into autumn, my mother said, the persimmons in the yard have been all red, there is time to come back. The epidemic is blocking the not-so-long journey, but the day of the end is just around the corner. Mother's hair is graying. She looked up at the orange and red persimmons in the yard, perhaps a colorful painting of autumn.