I have to go
I have to go.
I couldn’t even light the candle, light the incense, burn the lighter, and burn my fingers.
The wind was so strong and whistled over. It seemed to drive us away, ruthlessly and cruelly.
The raindrops are very heavy. Although they are not dense, they are full of warnings and expulsions.
Just now, I sat in the car, the stuffy county, people coming and going, some in a hurry, some calmly talking and laughing, but most of them were indifferent, as if they came from another world.
Your best friend asked me, dare to go, dare not go, it looks like it is going to rain.
I didn’t answer. I am must come to see you, since I called yesterday.
Moreover, I believe that rain cannot come, because it knows that we are coming to see you, and it will leave us even a little chance. I believe God will help us.
However, there is still no after all. Oh, my God? If God is wise and kind, how could he bring such kind, warm and virtuous you away from me? How can we break up such a happy family? How can children lack irreplaceable maternal love in their whole life?
Therefore, it sent wind, rain, strong wind and heavy rain to come.
I wanted to light the candle so stubbornly, to light the incense, and to leave you even a little bit of faint warmth when we turned around and left, but it didn’t work. And I, therefore, failed to look at you quietly and talk to you silently. I couldn’t sit beside you quietly, smoking and crying.
I don’t like to come with others. I don’t want to show them sadness, and I don’t want to be strong enough to show them. We can’t be together, I know, but I just want to be with you, even on the barren hills and mountains, silently, even though you don’t say a word, so do I.
But I can’t refuse her kindness, she is your best friend. For more than two years, the world of others is still like that. Apart from the nearest relatives and friends, how many people still remember you? They have their lives and their ordinary but happy lives.
And I, although my soul is gone, still have to lower my head and walk through the streets you are familiar with, in our lonely home, in those units where others looked at me with strange eyes. Occasionally, I will raise my head, but I know that there is never such a firm and powerful pace. The head raised is just an illusion of helplessness. My head has been deeply lowered, down to the dust.
The wheat on the ridge has been harvested, and large tracts of scars stab into the sky like needles. Their golden yellow color has not lasted for a few days, and after the rain, it will be gray decay.
This cycle is over. The hope that has been sown, the exciting new green that has just emerged from the Earth, the joy of playing with the wind, the vitality of the festival, and the surprise of spitting are gone, never.
Although the world is still there, only reincarnation is left, and no one can escape the reincarnation.
Farmers who basked in wheat grains on the roadside collected their wheat grains with their heads lowered, and the rain was coming. But they would never think about the thousands of scars left in the field.
I have to go. My baby is still sleeping at home. Maybe he has already woke up. I wrote him notes left, and some words were also marked with pinyin, but I still don’t worry. I know you don’t worry either.
Next time, I will come alone and talk to you quietly.
May 31, 2020
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