Memorial Albizia Tree in Autumn (1) When I was ten years old, I won first place in a composition competition.My mother was still young at that time, and she was eager to tell me about herself, saying that her composition was even better when she was a child, and the teacher didn't even believe that such a good article could be written by her. "The teacher found the family and asked if the adults in the family helped. I might not be ten years old at that time." I was disappointed when I heard it, and smiled deliberately: "Maybe? What do you mean may not be less than?" She explained .I pretended not to pay attention to her words at all, and played ping-pong against the wall, which made her very angry.But I admit that she is smart and that she is the most beautiful girl in the world.She was making herself a dress with blue ground and white flowers.

At the age of twenty, my two legs were disabled.Apart from painting easter eggs for others, I thought I should do something else. I changed my mind a few times and finally wanted to learn to write.My mother was no longer young at that time, and she started to have gray hair on her head because of my legs.The hospital has made it clear that there is currently no cure for my disease.My mother's full attention was still on treating my illness, looking for doctors everywhere, inquiring about folk remedies, and spending a lot of money.She can always find weird medicines for me to eat or drink, or to wash, apply, smoke, or moxibustion. "Don't waste your time! It's no use!" I said.All I could think about was writing novels, as if that thing could save crippled people from their troubles. "Try again, how do you know it won't work if you don't try?" she said, hoping religiously each time.However, for my legs, there are as many disappointments as there are hopes.The last time, my crotch was smoked and burned.The doctor at the hospital said that this is too dangerous, and for paralyzed patients, it is almost fatal.I wasn't too scared. I thought it would be good to die, and I would be happy to die.My mother was terrified for several months, watching me day and night, and said as soon as the dressing was changed, "Why did it get hot? I've been paying attention!" Fortunately, the wound healed, otherwise she would have gone crazy.

Then she found out I was writing novels.She said to me: "Then write well." I heard that she was finally desperate for my leg to be healed. "When I was young, I liked literature the most," she said. "When I was about the same age as you are now, I also thought about writing," she said. "Didn't your composition come first when you were young?" She reminded me .We both did our best to forget about my legs.She borrowed books for me everywhere, pushed me to watch movies in the rain or snow, holding out hope like she used to find a doctor for me and inquire about folk remedies.

When I was thirty, my first novel was published, but my mother was no longer alive.A few years later, another novel of mine was lucky enough to win an award, and my mother had been away from me for seven years. After winning the award, more reporters came to interview.Everyone was kind and thought that it was not easy for me.But I only prepared a set of words, and I felt upset when I said it.I shook the car and hid, sitting in the quiet woods in the small park, thinking: Why did God call my mother back early? In a daze, I heard the answer: "She is suffering too much. God sees that she can't bear it anymore." , and called her back." My heart felt a little comforted, and I opened my eyes to see the wind blowing through the woods.

I cranked my car out of there and wandered the streets, not wanting to go home. Memorial Albizia Tree in Autumn (2) After my mother died, we moved.I seldom go to the small courtyard where my mother lived.The small courtyard is at the end of a large courtyard.I occasionally go to the big courtyard with a cart, but I don’t want to go to the small courtyard, saying that it is inconvenient to go in with a cart, and the old ladies in the courtyard treat me like their children and grandchildren, especially considering that I have no I met my mother, but I didn't say anything, just gossip, blaming me for not going there often.I sat in the middle of the courtyard, drinking tea from my host and eating melons from my west.One year, people finally mentioned my mother again: "Go to the small yard and have a look, the acacia tree your mother planted is blooming this year!" My heart trembled, and I still reasoned that it was too difficult for a handcart to get in and out.Let’s stop talking, let’s talk about other things. We said that there is a young couple living in the house we used to live in. The woman just gave birth to a son. Son.

I didn't expect the tree to be alive.That year, my mother went to the labor bureau to find a job for me. When she came back, she dug a newly unearthed "mimosa" by the roadside. She thought it was a mimosa, but it grew in a flowerpot, but it turned out to be a silk tree.Mother had always loved those things, but her mind was elsewhere at the time.In the second year, the acacia tree didn't germinate. My mother sighed once, but she was still reluctant to throw it away and let it grow in the earthen pot.In the third year, the Albizia julibrissin grew leaves again, and it became luxuriant.Mother was happy for many days, thinking it was a good omen, she often went to take care of it, not daring to be careless.Another year later, she took the acacia tree out of the pot and planted it on the ground in front of the window, sometimes muttering that it took several years for this kind of tree to bloom.A year later we moved, and the grief made us all forget about the little tree.

Instead of wandering the streets, I thought, let's just go and look at that tree.I also want to see the room where my mother lived again.I always remember that there was a child who just came into the world, neither crying nor fussing, staring at the shadow of the tree.Is it the shadow of the silk tree? There is only that tree in the small courtyard. The old ladies in the yard still welcomed me, the east room poured tea, the west room lit cigarettes, and brought them to me.Everyone doesn't know about my award, maybe they do, but they don't think it's important; they still ask about my legs and whether I have a formal job.This time, it was really impossible to shake the cart into the courtyard.The small kitchens in front of every house are enlarged, and the aisles are so narrow that a person pushing a bicycle in and out has to turn sideways.I asked about the silk tree.Everyone said that it blooms every year and grows to the height of the house.That said, I can no longer see it.If I ask someone to read it behind me, it's not impossible.I regret that I didn't rock the car to see it in the past two years.

I shook the car and walked slowly on the street, not in a hurry to go home.Sometimes people just want to be alone for a while.Sorrow also becomes enjoyment. One day when the child grows up, he will think of his childhood, the shadows of those shaking trees, his own mother, and he will run to see that tree.But he will not know who planted that tree and how it was planted.