Chapter 29 Guardian

The sound of firecrackers from far and near kept ringing, presumably something happened.I went out to inquire, and found that there was neither red happiness nor white happiness, but it was the day when ghosts and ancestors were worshiped in the seventh half of the lunar calendar. In the silent valley, the sound of firecrackers spread far away, but the sound of firecrackers came with the wind, but no one knew where it came from.At this time, I can't help but think of my own origin.My family has never had the habit of burning cannons to worship ancestors.My late parents are not by my side, not at the head or end of the village, so I can't listen to my own flesh and blood approaching on this day.

Most urbanites emigrate to other places, like kites with broken strings blowing in the wind.For us, the ancestors are often just some words to describe the distance and nothingness, not the reality that can be heard (firecrackers), smelled (incense), and touched (grave soil and grass).We are blinded on the festival day and have nothing to do.Over time, we may eat and drink more and remember less on days like Qingming Festival, Double Ninth Festival, July and a half, winter solstice, and New Year's Eve. In contrast, the hometown is different from other places.Those who settle in their hometown have always been neighbors to their elders, and they have always been spirit guards in a broad sense: when you go out, you may find your parents’ cemetery; if you climb uphill, you may be your grandparents’ cemetery; The cemetery of aunts, uncles, and aunts...the ancestors form the front and back of the house in all directions, breaking into the field of vision at any time, changing their voice, appearance and posture, it is not nothingness.Here, a kind of filial piety that Chinese people regard as the core of tradition, a kind of prudence towards the end and cherishing the future, and even respecting the past and depreciating the present, before becoming a cultural attitude, has actually been the situational regulation in the actual life of farmers. The nature that touches the scenery.When they worship, death is like life, because the dead are always close to their eyes, which is a striking and hard reality.

For the same reason, some graves are lively while others are cold. Such a comparison must be particularly exciting in the eyes of the ancestor worshippers, and it cannot but make people more nervous.The difference between rise and fall, and the difference between continuity and discontinuity are directly manifested in the presence or absence of "incense" in reality.This kind of different treatment in front of the grave is not often heard and seen by urbanites, but it is impressive in the impression of rural people, which is enough to make them firm in their ambition to carry on the family line, especially their determination to give birth to a son - just because the son is to guard against old age The source of food and clothing (urbanites may rely more on their own pensions), and they are more obligated to pay respects to their ancestors (urbanites may have no graves to visit or have ancestors that they do not worship).

I used to think patriarchy was just ignorance.Many modern divorcees, celibates, homosexuals and DINK families do not think that having children is a major event.Our life thus appears more civilized.But we have to be careful: we say these words when we have a pension, and we say these words when we are far away from the incense in front of the grave. It must sound alien to the country people-just like the country people's panic about having no heirs, and the firecrackers in front of us. Once again, the sound came to my heart, and I was afraid that it would not be easy for us to understand when we passed by the Qingleng Ye Tomb again and again.

Undoubtedly, there are also some unswept graves in the countryside. The descendants of the owner may have died young, may have moved away, and may have forgotten their ancestors.There is such a one outside the gate of my house. The tombstone has collapsed and the tomb cover has been submerged in weeds.I once sat here and smoked a cigarette, like a guardian who found the wrong cemetery, imagining the stories that may have been under the weeds, including certain faces and gestures of the predecessors from childhood to old—until the night fell before my eyes Come down slowly.