Maternal love is a flower that never fades

In the early spring of forty years ago, my mother took me and my brother to the army with the army and came to a remote island. The island is almost isolated from the world, and life is extremely difficult. His father goes to sea with the ship all the year round, and the burden of life falls on his mother’s shoulders.

Her mother was born with fine eyebrows and beautiful eyes, and she was small and exquisite, only 1.5 meters tall, but the hardships of life couldn’t stop her. After she settled down at home, she got busy, turning the ground to grow vegetables in front of and behind the house, building a shack to feed chickens and ducks. My mother also took over the work of the embroidery factory, which she could take home to do, and was paid by the piece. She sews and embroiders when she is free.

A mother who grew up in the country is a master of farming. Mother carefully cares about the fields, plowing, watering, fertilizing, and weeding every day, and she works without ambiguity. In the early spring, she sowed the seeds, tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, beans, greens, corn, etc. In the summer, it was already green and beautiful, and the garden was full of fragrance.

In those few years, my mother always cooked for us in different ways, and my brother and I jumped up like joints. She threw sweat drops into the soil, and the crops and vegetables that grew out to feed our bones and souls.

Mother’s vegetable garden is also a large garden. She throws the seeds she picked up from the roadside in a corner of the garden. The flowers are daffodils, impatiens, canna, grasses and stones, etc., blooming intricately and fragrantly.

My mother is familiar with everything on the earth. She walks around the garden a few times a day, talking to every plant, and talking to every flower. Maybe it was because she was tainted with the scent of pollen and flowers, or Feng Erdie was familiar with her, and when she entered the garden, she danced around her.

Mother was busy working in the field for a while, went back to the house and sat at the window to embroider. She stretched the silk cloth with an embroidery brace, took a pen to compose a pattern on the cloth, and then put it under the sewing machine to embroider it out.

Mother embroiders most of the plants in the garden, so she is naturally skilled in her heart. She woven every inch of time into the fresh and vivid embroidery. The things she made were very popular because of their exquisite embroidery and bright colors. My mother used the money she earned to pay for tuition and books for me and my brother.

When her mother was young, her family was poor. After only four years of study, she abandoned school and went home to work in farming. This became a pity in her heart. The mother, who has always been thrifty in life, is very willing to buy books and fills the small bookcases at home. She told us to read more, and said that reading is a great thing.

As my father changed jobs, our family moved to a small town in the Central Plains. Time flies by, and I don’t know when, my mother is dazzled, her back is hunched, and her face is wrinkled like chrysanthemum petals. The old sewing machine was left unused, and my mother hadn’t embroidered for a long time.

My mother, who is free, calls me every week. She knew that I often write late, and told me on the phone that you can write slowly, and don’t get tired of writing endless articles. After a short pause, she said again, writing is tiring, so you can write for a while and look out the window.

I replied indiscriminately, but in my heart I felt that she was a little nagging, in the mother’s heart, as if I would never grow up a child. Putting down the phone, I continued to concentrate on writing. After a long time, I was really told by my mother that my eyes were dry and my shoulders were a little uncomfortable.

I bought some medicine, but it didn’t get better after a while. In those days, my mother didn’t call again, and I felt a little stunned that something was missing. Because I was busy rushing the manuscripts, I couldn’t go home to visit her that summer.

One weekend in early autumn, I was writing at home and heard someone knock on the door. When I opened the door and saw that it was my mother, she was carrying a big bag in her hand. She was delighted and eagerly said, take a look, what I brought you.

I opened it to see, a packet of jasmine and a packet of roses are dried flowers that have been dried. Mother looked at me with a smile, held a handful, and let me sniff closely, a faint fragrance overflowed. Mother said, I planted flowers downstairs, dried them after picking them, and brought you soaking in water, which can improve your eyesight and soothe your body and mind.

It turned out that my mother was busy planting flowers all summer. She set up a plot in front of the building, bought flowers and seedlings, and took care of the garden carefully. I can imagine how difficult it is to plant the flowers in that big garden.

A mother who is more than seventy years old has far less sharp legs than when she was young. Staring at these little bones, a warm current suddenly swelled in my heart. They have been watered by their mother’s sweat, and they have filled with so much true and pure human love. The mother who walks in the garden is the most unique branch among the flowers in the garden, because, ah, only maternal love is a flower that never fades.

But I didn’t really understand my mother until I was middle-aged, after having tasted all the tastes of life. Fortunately, it’s not too late. With my mother, my heart is peaceful and stable, and I won’t lose my way. With my mother, I have a home, where the fragrance of the earth is filled.