Your birthday

There was nothing, except the sound of rain.

The rain hit the umbrella, thumping, dense, non-stop, it was as if to drown me deeply.

I squatted under the umbrella, smoking a cigarette, looking at the splattered raindrops on the ground, and looking at the scattered weeds in front of me. The weeds were hanging with raindrops, cold raindrops, glistening and shining, like a tear that didn't want to fall.

Underneath my feet was mud, and my forefeet were sunk deep inside the mud.

I smoked a cigarette, which choked me so loudly that I kept coughing, and sometimes the air seemed to block my throat, accompanied by tears gushing out.

There was nowhere to run from the smoke, and it was such a small umbrella that it couldn't hide them. As soon as they entered the rain, they were scattered and torn into threads, unable to rise or fall, and then quickly dispersed into the rain, without even the last bit of temperature.

Across the ditch, the poplar forest was shrouded in fog. The fog rose from it, wisp by wisp, I knew the trees were tall, I had gazed at them so many times, now lush green, I could only see the dense leaves, hanging rain, and the fog of sorrow, a steady stream rose from their roots.

No one knows but me, so much sorrow.

You lie next to me, not saying a word.

The bunch of chrysanthemums that I brought you, yellow and white chrysanthemums, lay quietly on your body, and I could not smell the flowers. There is no wind, and the raindrops fall on it, also quietly.

I turn my head sideways to speak to you, I can hear my own choked, intermittent voice, some about the children, some about the elderly, more about us, about our once beautiful life, about your once hard work, about my future hopelessness.

I sometimes can't help but blame you, blame you for leaving me, leaving our children behind. You don't have to care about anything, but what about us? I cannot do these things well you know, then all these things are done by you, baby like to eat, baby wear clothes, baby so small are promised you, to buy you earrings, buy a necklace, and he, where there is this opportunity?

A bird flew over, low down, it had a long tail. It seems to look at me, this wild mountain, it is lonely. Where is its nest in all this rain? It flew over those treetops, over those barren grasses, and it didn't know where it was.

It knew it couldn't persuade me, and it left without a word, without leaving me the sound of its shaking wings.

I sang to you, but the song was so sad that I couldn't sing coherently, and sometimes the voice struggled to break. At that time I sometimes sang loudly at home, you did not stop me, and sometimes could not help but follow a sentence. I knew that you didn't like singing, you only knew how to live your life, you only knew how to take care of your husband and your son, and you had no interest in anything else.

I read poems to you, which surprisingly hid such deep oceanic sadness, I did not want you to understand this, when I read to the baby, you just silently do housework. You would sometimes glance at us as a couple, and I could see the approving look. I still read a story to my baby every night, colorfully, only when my baby falls asleep quietly, I keep my eyes round, in the dark, and let the tears flow past my ears.

Today is your birthday, the bouquet I sent you last year, in the spring, summer, autumn and winter has long been turned into dust. And I can't believe I never had a birthday while you were alive. I thought we had all the time in the world, but it's gone forever! Never again!

Today, it's raining so hard, and it hasn't stopped for a moment. Maybe you didn't let me come, you didn't want to see my sadness and let me be good.

But I know that you have nothing, except this rain, cold, not stopping for a moment