Appreciation of A Hui's Prose "Shell Jingle"

As soon as my mother left the hospital, she asked her sister who was a doctor in Ningbo, "How far is it from here to the seaside? I want to see the sea. " My sister arranged for me to accompany my mother to Daishan.

As soon as I boarded the ferry, the sound of motor sounded, and the sea breeze came against my face, fondling my mother's pale face affectionately, like a pity hand from a distant relative. Mother leaned against the railing, closed her eyes slightly and said, "I smell the sea." Sure enough, the nasal cavity is full of the coolness and freshness of the sea.

It suddenly occurred to me that my mother's maiden name is Hai, which is a rare Hui surname in Henan Central Plains. My mother's maiden name is Pinghai. She has called for 70 years, but she has never seen the sea, let alone what a calm sea looks like. Her old man has only seen wheat fields like the sea, which makes her very uneasy.

I answered my mother understandably, "It's the smell of your roots."

The sea breeze swelled our clothes into hunting flags, rolled them up and rattled them.

The waves rang naughtily beside the boat, like a group of naked children, rolling and turning up the waves and slamming on the side of the boat. It bounced melodiously again and broke into drizzle in the cabin. The rain kept pouring on our heads and faces, spreading wet joy. Next to a girl in pink, she pursed her pink mouth, stretched her wet clothes helplessly, raised her little face and said to her boyfriend, "Look, it's all wet." The young man smiled and pinched the girl's pink cheek, but did not answer. My mother is anxious to defend the sea, just like defending her family. She said, "It's not dirty. The sea here is clean. Look. "

Our eyes wrapped around my mother's fingers and threw them into the sea. Although the sea is a little messy, there is not a leaf, a piece of paper, and the background color turned up by sediment, just like the old coarse cloth newly woven by farmers in eastern Henan. The moving ship plowed the smooth skin of the sea, the sea waves rippled and unfolded, and the silver-bright lip line was embedded in the sea water, which was gentle and charming and dynamic, and kissed the horizon with one kiss. There is a seabird following the boat. Its crisp and shrill cry is that it is singing the song of the sea. It walks freely, flies upward or dances obliquely, winning people's pleasant appreciation.

The sea is vast and the water is getting deeper and deeper. I can't touch the distant thoughts of the sea, just like I can't touch the deep blood of a family. I found my mother who had been ill for a long time. At this time, her eyebrows danced like the sea breeze. Her calcified lungs for many years were permeated by water vapor in the sea. I heard her old man's long-lost laughter. It was Shu Lang who realized his long-lost wish.

I live in Fisherman's House near the sea, an elegant courtyard and an exquisite building. In front of it are several thriving cycads and a bunch of brilliant red irises, and behind it is the sparkling sea. I sighed: "How beautiful! How rich! It is best to live in reading and writing for a long time. " Busy receiving our boss, he said in broken Mandarin, "Now we are rich and have a good time. Eat the mountain by the mountain, eat the sea by the sea. Poor before, travel is not convenient ... "

My mother walked around the room and asked me in a low voice, "Why is there no air conditioning?" ? It's very hot at night in summer. "The thin wife of shop-owner smiled softly, and mother took Daishan as the Central Plains.

The hut cooled down after sunset. I put the blanket on my mother's shoulder, and her mother lay on the mahogany windowsill, watching the sea intently. The sea rolled tirelessly in her eyes, and the silvery white waves were from far and near, and from near to far. The sound of the waves was sometimes loud and sometimes low. The sea breeze blows gently, wrapping the moist smell of the sea and nourishing our breath. That night, my mother fell asleep quietly with the waves of the sea on her pillow. I can't believe her slow breathing. A few days ago, she was in the emergency room of Ningbo Hospital, using that terrible oxygen bottle and ventilator.

Mom's dream at this time is as quiet as the deep sea.

I think the daughter of this sea family must have heard the sound of waves coming from the depths of the roots in her dream. The waves of life, wave after wave, wave after wave, endless Millennium, infinite grace.

On this day, in the morning by the sea, I woke up very late, and the waves were still talking in the dark. I took my mother by the arm and set foot on the beach early. My feet are soft and my voice is rustling. I feel great. Accustomed to the dirt roads in the fields of the Central Plains, my mother and I are a little uncomfortable and stagger.

The morning mist has not completely dispersed, like a piece of white gauze, dressing up the sea as if nothing had happened, looking up, hazy and poetic. My mother and I walked softly, for fear of scaring away the floating elves. Still shocked, something climbed up the flat beach. We squatted down and tried to open our eyes wide, and saw that little guy with many thin legs was walking solemnly, stopping and stopping, like a runaway child. There was a slight rustle all the way, which sounded distressing. I watched it climb close to my big foot, so I wrapped my finger in a scarf and picked it up gently. It's a small crab. The crab shell on its back hasn't grown hard yet, and it's a little soft under pressure. I screamed at this moment, and the little guy clamped my index finger hard, which hurt badly. I shouted to get rid of it, and it rolled on the beach and climbed to the sea in panic. It's safe there, and there are waves, which are called by the mother crab.

When the fog cleared, I saw two playful little crabs again. Maybe, like that little guy, the fisherman left them on the beach last night. I dare not insult the weakness of these little crabs any more. My bleeding index finger is overcoming the pain it brings. I watched them walk willfully, afraid to pick them up again. I only picked up shells.

Some shells are hidden in the sand. I feel that they are barefoot. One is soft and the other is hard. When I bent down to pull, a beautiful shell sparkled in the sun. Mom took off her shoes, too Her father picked up more shells than I did. She is very tolerant of the quality of shells, no matter how beautiful or ugly, she will stay when she finds them. If you can't hold it in your hand, put it in the shoe shell. Two shoes are full, like two boats full of goods.

When I returned to my sister's house in Ningbo from Daishan Island, my mother was so busy that she couldn't handle it. She sat on the balcony with a rosy face and was busy making handicrafts. All kinds of shells picked up at the seaside were cleaned by her, drilled into small holes and woven into strings with silk threads of various colors. The old mahogany desktop is covered with her masterpieces: shell bracelets, shell necklaces, shell earrings, and two strings of wind chimes made of shells.

Shell jewelry, distributed by her mother, was worn by her parents who were far away from the sea. The children of Yudonghai family in Henan province ran in the field and scattered crunchy all the way.

Shell wind chimes hang on windy windows.

Shells jingle, and children hear the bells ringing from the depths of life in the sea.