Chapter 33 my hand

my hand After dinner, I took out a clean glass and made a thick cup of green tea.As I sipped my tea, I was thinking hard about the article I was about to do.Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of my hand holding the teacup. The slender white fingers, which contrasted brilliantly with the green tea leaves, looked like five slender ivory. —Is this my hand? --my hand. So I slowly put down the teacup, put my hands on my knees, and looked carefully at myself: the long fingers, the thin palms, and the absence of any blood looked really scary. I think this is the left hand, maybe the right hand is better.So I put my right hand on my knee, and compared it this way, then I compared it to see that it was almost the same, but I couldn't tell the difference.It's just that the tip of the index finger of the right hand is stained with blue ink, which was accidentally stained when writing the manuscript, and it can be washed clean with soap.

What a pair of pale and thin hands!I don't want to look at them anymore, I just hold the teacup silently and sip the tea lightly.I thought to myself, they should rest, otherwise, with such bloodless hands, how could they write flesh and blood articles? It is said that there are many great Western writers who don't need to do it themselves when they write.All they have to do is sit on the sofa leisurely, only smoking a cigar, and reading while puffing, while someone else will type or shorthand it for him.It is comfortable to write articles like this, but compared with theirs, my status is tens of thousands of miles away, so I have to think about it as a myth. to write.

Write, write, my hand is numb and my fingers are stiff.When I saw them, I forgot all the happy sentences I had prepared in my mind. What was left was only infinite bitterness, which could not be expressed in words or sentences. Facing the blank manuscript paper, I was just in a daze. After a while, I suddenly got an idea: put my left hand on the manuscript paper, and draw along it with a pencil in my right hand. After a while, the outline of a thin hand was clearly left on the paper. —Is this my hand? --my hand. My hands were never like this before: ten thick fingers with very short nails; the palms were fat and thick, and the color was ruddy.

When they were young, they spent all day feeding mud balls, catching bombs, and giving their mother chicks leather. At school, they're busy copying notes, playing tennis, and tinkling the piano... Then he came, put the diamond ring on my ring finger, kissed it, and said, "How capable, your hand!" I did many things for them with my hands... Grease and dust were all embedded in my palms, and they couldn't be washed off endlessly. My hands finally became dirty and rough. But I don't blame my own hand, because it works to make other people happy and happy. In the winter, the backs of my hands are cracked.But I still endured the pain and managed the children's cotton for sewing under the lamp.

Rough hands touched the brocade, and there was a sound of perseverance. The children were all surprised and asked me, "Mom, why are your hands making noise?" I smiled: look at his face, but he didn't smile.After a while, he frowned and said to me in a disgusted tone: "Look at your hand, didn't you ruin my precious diamond ring?" I was silent, and the next day, I returned the precious diamond ring to him. But neither the law nor the economy allowed me to bring a child: I had nothing but my cracked hands, and I lived alone. —Is this my hand? --my hand. My hands can no longer change the urine for the children's excrement, and have a runny nose. I just hold a teacup in my left hand all day long, and write with my right hand, write, write...

Strong tea tastes bitter.I was slowing down while thinking about the article secretly.But what words and sentences can express my meaning?And, even if expressed, who would want to know? After a long while, I suddenly got an idea: send the manuscript paper with the hand drawn on to my children, and let them know: my hands have become thinner one by one.