"My brother is dead." I wrote four big characters in chalk on the door panel of dad's room. At that time, I had just entered the second grade of primary school.
"You are so annoying, why are you doodling everywhere?" Mother said to me angrily. "What's the matter? Is he dead? " "Your aunt cries at home every day." "Why are you crying?" I thought to myself.
My little brother's name is "Xiong Ya", and I envy his name very much. It feels profound and meaningful. Asia is magnificent and extraordinary. Unlike my name "Taoju", it is so tacky and clear at a glance.
Xiong Ya loves to laugh. In his vague memory, his body is thin and his face is always pale. When I was five or six months old, I didn't know what was wrong with me. Aunt often wrapped him in a blanket, stuffed him into a "doll" basket and took him to the township health center to give him an injection. This state probably lasted for more than a month. Every time I meet my aunt on the road, I feel that she is like a drunk soju, leaning over and falling asleep. I'm a little puzzled. It was not until I grew up that I realized that because Xiong Ya was ill, I took care of him day and night, which was caused by overwork.
My brother's condition is still not getting better. That night, I remember they invited their grandparents. The old man, wrapped in a long blue shirt, with a cane and a black pipe in his mouth, looks quite sophisticated. He shook his long sleeves and sat down slowly. Let dad find a bowl and fill it with white wine. Grandma handed me paper and matches, lit the paper ball and quickly threw it into the wine; The old man pointed to the top of the bowl and drew several circles. Then I saw him wiping his right hand under his brother's nose, chin, temples, head and back with white wine. Yao's father walked around the room with his hands in his arms; My brother groaned feebly. ...
It was too late. I was so sleepy that I slept with my grandmother first. Yao's father and aunt are sitting in a fire pit with their arms around them. "I don't think so. I wonder if I can make it tonight? " Grandma got up after a short sleep and muttered. I've got up like this many times. In the middle of the night, I suddenly heard a man crying, "Oh, my son ... ah ... ah ..." The voice became louder and more miserable. Grandma got up again. Listen to her: "How sad it is for a man to cry like this?"
I don't know what happened. Get up in the morning, the room is very quiet. I saw my brother lying neatly on the dustpan. Dad is working on a huge board, and grandpa is busy hammering a wooden box (also called "fire box"), and he doesn't know what "slogan" is blowing. It sounds a little sad and awkward.
Two or three-year-old Di Hui Jun's sister stood beside the dustpan in a wool vest, licking her mouth, pulling her little brother's little hand, and kept shaking her little head and saying to Xiong Ya, "Come on, make an egg flower and smile at it ... tut tut tut tut." At this moment, I feel very strange. My brother's face has always been pale and red, so full, transparent and bright as a thin-skinned persimmon, which will break when touched. My aunt has been crying and screaming. Grandma helped her up and patted her on the back, not knowing what to say to her. ...
Soon, the rectangular wooden box was booked and eight nails were used. Dad later said that building a house in an uncle's house happened to steal eight nails. Is this a signal? They wrapped their little brother in white cloth and carefully put him in the "fire" box. I watched all this silently, afraid to speak.
Finally, the lid was closed, and my father and grandfather took their younger brothers and carried the wooden box to the forest at the door. It is said that it will be buried. I don't know what this means. The whole process, just the closest family members around, they don't talk. Dad has been sitting in the fire pit motionless, his eyes straight.
My brother left and put it in a wooden box. I heard from adults that he was dead. I can write. I wrote on the door panel with chalk: "My brother is dead." I'm very proud. I think my calligraphy is very beautiful
Just last month, my child was ill and I was in poor health myself. For more than ten days in a row, I took the bus with my child in my arms and dragged my tired body to give the child an injection. It's basically going out early and coming back late. In those days, I felt suffocated and began to stagger. I feel guilty at the thought of my aunt carrying my brother to see a doctor all day. I finally understand how ignorant and cruel those four words I have written are, and they will always hurt a mother's heart.
"I hate it. Why should I doodle? " Aunt, I'm sorry.