Fire, far away, far away, I see fire.
The night is too deep and too dark. Deeply dark. I can only come back at this time and visit your 70, 80, and 90 years old. The train departed from the city during the day, bright and bright; passing through the village at night, sparks of fire; three minutes later arrived at the small station, timid, eager. I can’t change the departure time of the train, the bells, the slow speed. The train will not speed up the journey and shorten the track for a young person and an old person, a middle-aged person and an older person.
Every night like this, I can’t say goodnight to you.
You prepare before the train departs, the pot is full of water and the stove is full of firewood. Where are dumplings? Dumplings are fresh only after dark. Good night to the village, good night to the villagers, good night to the cats and dogs, you are upset, go back and forth to the yard, and check if there is a train rumbling in the distance, as if the clocks are inaccurate.
You hear the rumbling of the train and it will start a fire for me. The train was passing by the village, and the night was too late and too dark. I only saw the fire in the stove, but I couldn’t see you by the stove. The train is at a small station five miles away, stop for me. The door opens, I get off, the train opens, the water in the pot is boiling, you are happy to open it. Dumplings in the pot, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, ninety… not enough, not enough, twenty, thirty… still not enough, always not enough.
I get home, dumplings out of the pot, greet me. The fragrance fills the village, chickens, ducks, cats and dogs sleep soundly, they don’t bother.
The stars blinked, and the dumplings opened their mouths. You said, eat, eat, shake and shake all the way to be hungry, eat, eat, good night when you are full.
What about you grandmother. I am not full, and you are not good night. I’m full, you want to talk to me.
I can’t say good night to you on such a night, many nights like this.
It’s the “good night” I taught you, grandma. Once upon a time, days were poor, and my words were also poor. I learned these two words from the city.
The poor days of dumplings are dried cornmeal. At that time, the train at night also rumbling, you don’t have dumplings, only corn.
In late autumn, the harvested corn is full of the yard. From the train, I saw the cold lights in the yard, and you, coldly frozen. You have to peel off the leaves of the scattered piles of corn this night and stack them into piles.
I was eating the tender corn you boiled. It’s not early, grandma, I’ll be busy tomorrow, and be early and good night.
I was still young, but you were still young at that time, and you were ignorant of what is good night. You laugh at me, the new words you learned in the city, no good night, no good night, no good night, it sounds like nothing. Good night is only when the corn is cleaned up, the yard is cleaned up, and tomorrow is ready.
You are a wise man, grandma. Your explanation is correct, I have no reason or logic to refute it.
There is so much corn, so much every fall, such a night, such many nights, I can’t say good night to you.
Most nights are dumplings, and occasionally nights are tofu. I said in the city that the tofu here is unpalatable and smells like tofu. A word like wings, flies into your ears that no longer listen to rumbling.
Seventy is rare, and eighty is more treasured. The veteran goes on the horse, and the tofu you make can top a city alone. You say eat, eat, shake and shake all the way to be hungry, eat, eat, good night when you are full.
I was full, but uneasy. To make tofu, you need to boil the water in a large pot to make the head of the kang hot and the tips of the kang hot. Everyone likes hot kangtou, you say you love to sleep hot kangtou. The hot kang tip, leave it to me.
Grandma, I can’t say goodnight to you on such a night. We should exchange hot and hot, and coordinate ancestors and grandchildren. Hot is a pain, heat is not. If you hurt, I will hurt; if you are well, I will feel at ease.
The more you insist, the closer I should be to you, hot and hot, not on the surface of the skin, but in the heart, creating a balance.
You say, it’s good night. When did you learn the words that belong to me, I want to laugh, but I can’t laugh, and it hurts. I can’t say good night to you on such a night.
In 90 years, there were many, many nights. 90 years old, means very few nights? This kind of night, no matter how late, you will not be at ease.
The train rumbling through the village. But I am not in the car, I am in the city. You often get up at this time. You may have slept, maybe not, you don’t know if you have slept. Touching the light, staggering to the yard, holding the wall to the firewood shed, holding the firewood and moving into the house. Tell your uncle, you see me on the train, you will get off in a while, and you want to cook for me.
The uncle knew that his mother had made mistakes again, made mistakes like children-when people grow old, they will become children.
Grandma, don’t you believe I didn’t come back. The video on my phone with my uncle proves that I am far away and that I am away. You saw me and smiled like a child, and then, when you couldn’t touch me, you were also disappointed like a child.
I shouted into the phone: “Grandma, good night. I’ll go back to see you in a few days.”
You said, “Are you getting home soon? I’ll cook for you.”
I said loudly to the phone: “Grandma, good night. I’ll go back to see you in a few days.”
You said, “What did you say? I’ll cook for you.”
Uncle took the mobile phone: “Your grandma’s ears are getting worse and worse. She often has tinnitus and auditory hallucinations.”
Close the video, I don’t want my grandma to see my sad side. I shut myself in the city at night, night in the city.
On such a night, I can’t say goodnight to you in the future.
In autumn, I will go back to see you. You are 92 years old. Outside the car window, the wind rolled up the yellow leaves and fell again.
Fire, far away, far away, I see fire.
That’s not the stove you lighted up, it’s the eternal light that your relatives lit for you.
I got home, knelt to you, and kowtow.
The night is too deep and too dark. Deeply dark.
This kind of night, every night in the future, I can finally tell you—oh, no, I can’t say that to you anymore:
Grandma, good night.