Nostalgia at the beginning of cotton

  Entering the autumnal equinox, the cotton in my hometown enters into full bloom day by day. When I went back to my hometown last weekend, passing by a cotton field and looking at the white cotton, I couldn’t help but remember the scene of growing and picking up cotton when I was a child.
  Every year before Gu Yu, the acres of cotton fields in the family were picked up and leveled by the old father in advance. As soon as Gu Yu arrived, sowing began. At that time, there was no modern large-scale planting machinery, and everything was done manually. The father used a small hoe to ditch in the front, and the mother followed closely behind to sow the seeds one by one. That kind of unpretentious picture is simply a reprint of Miller’s oil painting “The Farmer·The Land·Poetry”, which is deeply imprinted in my mind. In fact, in my mother’s eyes, my young brother and I are also two seeds that hold too much hope. We grow on the same land as cotton.
  Planting cotton takes time and labor. The father is responsible for spraying medicine and weeding in the cotton fields, and all the odd tasks for picking up the cotton fields are almost entirely contracted by my mother. From the moment Mianyang straightened her waist, the mother began to work in the fields all day. Mother used her skillful hands to prun, cross and pinch the cotton. Mother’s cotton field is always so vibrant and green. Compared with the neat cotton field, the thin mother is so small, but at the same time so great. It is because of the constant work of this thin body that she has the hope of flakes. Under the care of my mother, my brother and I have also grown up vigorously. Of course, our growth cannot be separated from cotton-this beautiful and solid backing. The harvest of cotton has become all our support for dressing, eating, and reading.
  In anticipation that could no longer be anxious, the snow-white cotton bloomed. As a result, picking up cotton has become the most tiring and happiest farm work for my mother. When the cotton is in full bloom, my mother has been picking up the cotton fields almost from morning to night, eating only a few bites of dry food in the fields at noon. Whenever we return from school, my brother and I always follow my mother with a small schoolbag. Although our picking actions were not so professional and even a little clumsy, my mother saw it in my eyes and was delighted in my heart. For the first time in the long journey of life, my brother and I, as laborers, had zero distance with the land. Closeness.
  With the approach of winter, the cotton in the responsibility field is only bare and empty. The mother at this time is still rarely free for half a day. It was late at night, and under the dim oil lamp, my mother’s spinning wheel was still singing “squeaky”. The pure white cotton wool stretched out between my mother’s fingers; the days when the patches were piled up, were actually woven into masses of poetry. My brother and I went from this dreamland to that dreamland in a quilt full of sunshine. The coarse cloth gown spun by my mother’s family has become the most proud support for my brother and me.
  Nowadays, although mothers who are over seventy years old no longer work in the fields, the whiteness of cotton still accompanies them—not elsewhere, just on their heads…