Ring

When I went home on May Day, the old trees in the yard disappeared, leaving only a round of annual rings. My daughter had never seen the annual rings, and she was very excited to count and jump on them happily. She also asked from time to time: what’s the matter with the circle? One annual ring means that trees grow for one year. The life of the tree is in the annual rings. Father said: The tree is old and the heart is empty. If it is not cut down, it will die. While listening to father’s nagging, he looked at his father who was full of white hair. My father is a master of cooking, and I like his cooking most. When I went to school, as long as my father was at home, he rushed to the direction of home as soon as he finished school. As soon as he entered the hutong, he smelt the flavor of vegetables floating in the air: tofu and spinach, cabbage stir fry, lotus root stew Pig, wire drawing bananas. After getting married, I went home every half a month. My father always prepared a table of sumptuous meals early, and we could always finish the sweeping soon. After 60 years old, my father had a little high blood pressure, so he started to take medicine. In recent years, he had no previous spirit after cardiac surgery. The food was still very attentive, but the food was no longer smelly, lacking salt and oil, sometimes I forget to put seasoning. My father is really old. Others greet him and call: Old man!. There is an old man in my family. There is an old lady in my family. My mother was two years younger than my father, and her crow’s feet were already full. My mother was a tailor when she was young. Today, she is a clothing designer who makes a living by making clothes. The clothes she made were very popular in the village, and many people invited her to make clothes. At the end of the new year, I could make five or six ready-to-wear clothes one night. I always got a lot of praise when I went out wearing clothes made by my mother. At the end of last year, she sold a piece of velveteen fabric excitedly and made a coat for my daughter. A week later, her elaborate clothes were put on her daughter. Her mother looked around and shook her head: not good-looking, not good-looking! I only encouraged by the side: If I don’t do it for many years, of course I will give birth. At this time, my heart was faintly sad, and my mother was also old. I have to admit that my father and mother are getting older. My father, who lifted me high when I was a child, now it is hard to carry bucket water. His hands full of calluses were no longer so powerful. Now he could only scratch his little granddaughter with ease. He smiled, and there were more and more people on his forehead, which looked like the annual rings layer by layer. When I was a child, my mother wore two big twist braid, which was black and long. I admired it every day. I always liked to touch it when my mother was asleep. Sometimes my mother was in a good mood and asked me to braid her braid. Today, my mother called again, saying that the hair dyeing water bought for her last time was good and she would take some more. Her green hair had long been taken away by the annual rings. Every time I go home, I can always find that they are old again, and I can’t find them just after putting them on; I have to wear reading glasses after taking medicine for several pills; I fell asleep watching TV; I forgot to put salt in cooking …… my parents are getting old, and my youth is gradually fading away. I can no longer drink cold water like before. My child is going to primary school. Years have never calmed down. Years like rings have changed us. Today’s father and mother need my care when they go to the streets. Years have turned me into a mother holding my daughter’s hand, just like my mother holding my hand in those years. Some people say that life is a ship that will sink. It is better to say that every life has an end. Face the aging parents calmly, the lost youth, cherish what you have, the years have never been peaceful, only the inner calm can you listen to the sound days. When a tree grows old, its heart will be empty, and people will not. Like (prose editor: drops of ink become wounds) the snow in spring

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