In my memory, it was mid-August 1979.
The central plains were in the grip of intense heat. The scorching sun blazed down like a fireball, radiating waves of heat. On windless, rainless nights, mosquitoes buzzed all around, and the sound of frogs echoed from the rice fields, as if they were clamoring in the heat. That evening, my father sat on a small stool by the door, tilting his head, taking a nap amid the smoke of burning mugwort. His deep, steady snoring had become his signature. The ability to fall asleep sitting upright would accompany me into the years ahead.
That night was a restless one for both my father and me. I was about to embark on a new journey, filled with both anticipation and anxiety, like a young bird about to fly solo. My father, who had no formal education and could only write his own name, had a thin frame and a quiet demeanor. Years of poverty and humiliation had further deepened his timid and fearful nature.
At dawn, with the first crow of the rooster, my father rose quickly, like a soldier responding to a trumpet call. My grandmother, wobbling on her three-inch bound feet, brought over a few freshly boiled eggs, still warm. They were her most precious possession, from the two hens that provided all her pocket money. “Take these for the road, and take care of yourself. If your grandfather were still alive, how happy he would be!” Grandmother’s joy was always quickly overshadowed by a sigh, as she thought of the grandfather I never met—a man who had spent his life saving and sacrificing for his family. To support the household and buy some land for his sons, he made strict rules: the family was allowed only two meals a day, and those not doing physical labor could only eat porridge and pickled vegetables. Despite years of hard work and self-denial, the land he bought made him a target, labeled as a "rich peasant" during the political movements of the time. Eventually, this label led to his death from starvation when I was just over two years old, even though it was a time of favorable weather and good harvests.
Years of class struggle made everyone in the family speak with a nervous caution. Because of my grandfather’s former "wealth," my grandmother had been publicly humiliated numerous times. In her eyes, my generation finally had a chance to succeed: I was the scholar, a blessing on the family.
The morning air was filled with the scent of ripening rice, mingling with the coolness of dawn. I took deep, greedy breaths, savoring the brief moment of coolness. A sense of joy and relief covered the worries and despair that had weighed on me for over a decade. The mist that lingered like a thin veil brought the earthy scent, as if time itself had stopped in the quiet countryside. My father accompanied me along the winding path, heading toward the town of Mulan Lake, twelve miles away—now a suburb and retreat of Wuhan—to catch the first bus that would take me to my new life at university.
The village lay quietly on the hilltop, like a ripple unfolding. Last year, Song Ge, who left this village, became its first university student. Fourteen years my senior, he had been my middle school teacher. His journey should have started a decade earlier, but history delayed it, leaving a mark of sorrow unique to his generation. The villagers said that the hilltop’s spirit and openness brought us good fortune. We walked softly, and grandmother’s dog, Han Han, trailed quietly behind—it had always been one of my best companions. The other village dogs were still asleep. The muddy dirt path beneath our feet remained still, and the old adobe houses stood silently, witnessing the changes of the times. On a nearby hillside, the cotton field where I had picked cotton yesterday still showed a few white tufts swaying gently, as if bidding me farewell, or expressing their longing and reluctance. “I’m sorry I can’t stay with you, and I can’t waste my youth in a place where it’s so hard to create value. I have to go, I must go.” These were words I had whispered countless times to the cotton fields.
As the sky brightened, my father’s thin figure appeared especially fragile in the dawn light. His dark, tired face was etched with lines, and wrinkles crept onto his not-yet-forty-year-old forehead. He balanced a shoulder pole with luggage—one end held daily necessities, and the other, a wooden box from my uncle, containing clothes, bedding, and books. The box was heavy, handcrafted from freshly cut pine when my uncle learned I had been accepted to university a few weeks ago. On that day, I was picking cotton by the village, when the postman shouted from a distance: “Your university admission letter is here!” I dropped the cotton and ran home as fast as I could, the fastest I’d ever run in my life. I took the letter from the postman’s hand, turning to see my father standing in the empty house, looking both joyful and worried. “We have nothing. What will we do?” my mother muttered. My quiet, thoughtful uncle understood the worries that I couldn’t see in my parents.
My uncle said, “With a wooden box, there’s a place to keep anything valuable.” My mother replied, “We’re so poor; what valuable things do we have?” And as she spoke, she would often shed tears, sighing. It seems I inherited her tendency to cry easily—a habit I’ve never managed to change. She often spoke to herself like this.
I was just sixteen at the time. To my teachers and the villagers, I was first and foremost a mischievous child, and only then a smart one. As a mischievous, naive child, I looked forward to the future with curiosity and excitement, never realizing the burden of the hundred pounds of luggage my father carried. My father, weak in strength, had to stop frequently to rest, yet it never crossed my mind to offer to help carry some of the load. My father walked along the narrow path through the rice fields with steady steps, a smile on his face—a smile born of pride and a sense of achievement. The rice fields, turning golden in the breeze, swayed like tiny spirits. As my father gazed at the fields, his eyes were filled with affection and hope. He murmured to himself, “I need to work harder, get more clothes for the kids, and make sure the family has enough to eat.” Goals that once seemed within reach had become distant dreams over the years.
I wore the new Dacron shirt my father made for me, skipping happily ahead, my eyes fixed on the little fish and tadpoles in the rice paddies, oblivious to my father’s worries and hardships. My stonecutter uncle couldn’t accompany me; he had to work day and night building houses, carving stones to earn a meager income, and repay the debt for the wooden box he had made. His blessings could only be placed inside that heavy box. My mother had to care for three young children, and grandmother’s bound feet couldn’t possibly take her far. My father walked in silence, moving steadily forward. Whatever anxieties filled his mind, he didn’t know how to express them. Having grown used to all of this, I followed quietly behind, watching his determined figure disappear and reappear through the morning mist, a strange unease stirring within me.
We descended the hill, crossed the edge of the pond, waded through the riverbed, and walked through endless fields. As the sun slowly burned away the fog, the heat waves began to rise. “The sun’s catching up quickly,” my father said. Sitting by the river, he removed his straw sandals and washed them in the clear water: “You shouldn’t need these anymore, right?” he mused aloud. I had long since learned how to make straw sandals, and if I ever needed them, I knew I could make my own. The thought filled me with pride. I walked barefoot on the pebbles of the riverbed, relishing the cool touch of the water.
My father was a skilled tailor, sent to learn the trade by my grandfather when he was just a boy, becoming well-known in the area. No matter how complex a garment, it was a simple task in his hands. Thanks to his craftsmanship, our family once lived in relative comfort, almost feeling like the wealthiest in the village. But during the campaign to "cut off the capitalist tail," he had to return to the village and take up farming, a skill he was not adept at, to feed the family. Thus began the days of tattered clothes and constant hunger. From my father's demeanor, I learned so much—dedication, responsibility, a thoughtful nature, and a willingness to endure hardship and be kind. He was my first teacher, my most important role model.
The old, cluttered bus station in the little town held only a single, worn-out bus. People leaning through the windows passed items inside, shouting loudly. Here, shouting was the norm—there was no habit of speaking softly. After much effort, I managed to squeeze into the bus, while my father struggled to secure the wooden box on the roof. Then, he stood quietly to the side, waiting for the bus to depart. His gaze said everything he wanted to say, and all that he could say.
As the bus slowly began to move, I watched my father recede into the distance, my mind a blank. The dust stirred up by the wheels, like the morning mist, slowly obscured his figure, blending into the swirling clouds of dust. The bus’s stifling smell of sweat and the thick dust in the air quickly overwhelmed the scent of earth and rice. The hometown that had nurtured me for sixteen years was now slipping into the archives of my life’s history. I glanced at the man next to me wearing straw sandals, and instinctively touched the cloth shoes in my handmade cloth pouch, wondering when I’d start wearing them. The pouch was my own creation, made by stitching together small fabric scraps—both beautiful and durable. The cloth shoes were crafted by my mother. Grandmother had wanted to make a pair for me, too, but my mother stopped her: “Her eyesight isn’t good, threading needles is too hard for her, and making the soles is no easy task.”
More than forty years have passed since then, and my father left us many years ago. Esophageal cancer—the lingering consequence of a life of hardship. At some point, my mother also stopped crying so easily. The years I’ve lived in America are approaching my father’s age back then. And yet, the memory of walking behind him on that country path, him leading me toward my future, remains vivid.
Many times, I see my father's figure fade away in my dreams. But I know that the morning sun, those narrow paths, and his silent yet loving back have always stayed in my heart. They have become my strength and my anchor. His frail shoulders, like a mountain, allowed me to stand taller, to travel farther, to leave the village, pass through Wuhan, and cross the ocean.
Father, I haven’t let you down! The oppression and poverty that you endured will not be repeated in my children’s lives!
记忆中，1979年8月的中旬。
中原大地正值酷暑，烈日如火球般炙烤着大地，散发出阵阵热气。无风无雨的夜晚，蚊虫嗡嗡叫着，四处飞舞，水田里的蛙声响彻，仿佛在炎热中鼓噪。那天夜晚，父亲坐在门口的小板凳上，歪着脑袋，在艾草的烟雾中小睡，鼾声低沉而平稳，已然成了他独特的象征。坐着就能睡着的本领，也伴随着我走向了未来的岁月。
那一晚，对我和父亲而言都是个难眠之夜。我将踏上新的人生征途，未来的日子既充满期待，又蕴含着忐忑，就像即将单飞的稚燕。父亲没有文化，只认识自己的名字。瘦弱的身躯和沉默寡言，在长期贫困和被欺凌屈辱折磨之下，他的胆小怕事个性变得愈加明显。
天刚蒙蒙亮，头茬鸡鸣声响起，父亲像听到号角的战士，迅速起身行动。奶奶踩着三寸金莲的小脚歪歪扭扭地送来几个煮熟的正热乎着的鸡蛋，那是她最珍贵的财产，来自给她带来全部零用钱的两只母鸡：“带着路上吃，照顾好自己。要是你爷爷还活着，该有多高兴啊！”奶奶的喜悦，总是快速地被叹息掩盖，她想起了那个我不曾见过的，为了家人而节衣缩食，辛劳一辈子的爷爷。为了撑起这个家，为了给两个儿子置办点田地，留点有价值的资产，他规定家人每天只允许吃两顿饭，而且，不做体力活的人，还只能吃稀饭和咸菜。许多年的坚持和奋斗，苦了自己和家人，付出巨大购置的田地，却将自己编进了地富反坏右的队列。最终，他也因此，而在我出生的两年多时，在风调雨顺的年代，被饿死。
长期的阶级斗争岁月，逼得一家人说话变得神经质般的小心翼翼。因为爷爷曾经的“富有”，而被压到台上无数次批斗过的奶奶更是如此。她眼中，这一代终于有了出头之日：中了秀才，祖坟冒了清烟。
清晨的稻花香夹杂在微凉的空气中，我深深、贪婪地吸着，享受这短暂的清爽时刻。开心、轻松、志得意满，覆盖了压抑我十几年的忧愁，对人生的绝望。似浮云像清风，薄雾弥漫，送来泥土的气息，乡村的宁静仿佛停驻在时光之外。父亲陪我走在弯曲的小路上，送我去十二里外的木兰湖镇，今天武汉市的郊区和后花园，赶第一班公交，去开启我的大学生活。
村子静静地伏在山顶，似展开的一条波纹。去年，走出这里的松哥，成为村里的第一个大学生。年长我十四岁的他，是我的初中老师。本来在十年前就应该迈出脚步，被时代给耽搁了。就此，人生被刻上了那代人特有的悲哀。村民们说，是这山顶的灵气和开阔，吹来了书香门第的福气。我们轻步前行，奶奶的狗憨憨，悄悄跟在后面，它一直是我最好的伙伴之一，村子里的其他狗还在梦中。脚下那条泥泞的土石路依然沉睡，老旧的土砖房安静地见证着世道变迁。对个山岗上，从昨日我采摘过棉花的棉田，还依稀可以看见点点的白色在悠悠地摇摆着，像是在对我送行，也像是在诉说着思念和不舍。“对不起，我不能陪伴你们，我也不能将自己的青春浪费在这很难创造价值的地方。我得走，我也必须走。”这些，曾经是我独自无数次对棉田的倾诉。
东方泛白，父亲瘦弱的身影在晨曦中显得格外单薄，黝黑的脸庞上画满了疲惫，皱纹爬上了他还不到四十的额头。他用扁担挑着行李，一头是日常生活用品，一头是叔父送的木箱，里面装着几件衣服、被子和书。木箱沉重，是叔父在几个星期前，得知我被录取后，用新砍的松树赶制的。那天，我正在村旁的棉田采摘棉花，邮递员大叔老远就高声叫喊：通知书，大学录取通知书。那天我丢下手里的棉花，以人生最快的速度跑到家门口，从邮递员手里接过通知书。转身看着空空荡荡的家中正站着不知所措的父亲，和他既开心又忧愁的眼神。“这啥都没有，咋办呢？”是母亲的嘀咕声。少言寡语的叔父，粗中有细，他读懂了我不会明白的父母亲的忧愁。
叔父说，有个木箱，值钱的东西就有个放的地方。母亲说：“穷不拉几的，哪有啥值钱东西。”说着说着，她就会流泪感叹，哀叹。看来，我这爱哭的毛病，这辈子是改变不了了。很多时候，她会这样自言自语。
当时的我，年仅十六。在学校老师和乡亲们眼里，我第一是顽皮，第二才是聪明。我这个顽皮不懂世事的孩子，对未来充满了憧憬和好奇，却未曾意识到父亲挑着百斤行李的艰辛。体力弱小的父亲走不远便得停下来歇息会儿，而我却丝毫没有想到，应该主动替他分担些重量。父亲走在狭窄的稻田田埂上，步伐稳健，脸上挂着微笑，那是发自内心的骄傲与成就感。田野里的稻谷已变得金黄，微风吹过，稻穗像精灵般舞动，父亲看着这片片田野，目光中满是深情与希望。他在低声的自言自语：“该更努力些，给娃们添点衣物，让家人能经常吃饱。”昔日他可以轻松实现的目标，这几年成为遥不可及的妄想。
穿着父亲为我新做的的确良衬衣，开心地蹦跳着向前移动，满眼都是田野水中的小鱼和蝌蚪，对于父亲的辛劳和忧虑，毫无察觉。做石匠的叔父无法送我，他得披星戴月地给人建房子，凿石雕花，挣得微薄的薪水，支付欠下的请人做木箱的工钱。他只能将他的祝福装进那个沉重的木箱。母亲得照看三个未成年的孩子们，奶奶的三寸金莲根本就不可能让她走太远。父亲一路沉默，只是默默前行。他脑子里有再多的担忧，也不知道该如何表达出来。习惯了这一切的我，安安静静地跟在他的身后，看着那坚毅的背影在晨雾中忽闪忽闪，心中生出一丝莫名的忐忑。
走下山岗，跨越池塘边缘，趟过小河河床，在无边无际的农田间穿越了许久，阳光渐渐驱散雾气，向我们送来滚滚热浪。“太阳追得真快，”父亲说。坐在小河边，父亲脱下草鞋，在清水里洗了洗：“今后你不应该再需要穿这家伙了吧？”父亲自问自答。我早已经学会了如何制作草鞋，一旦需要，我有能力自己制作。嘴里说着，想到这，我是满心的自豪感。我赤着脚丫，在河床的小石上来回走着，享受着水的温度和清凉。
父亲是个裁缝师傅，几岁的时候就被爷爷送去学艺，早就是远近闻名的老师傅了。再难做的复杂衣服，在他手里都是小菜一碟。曾经，我们因为他的好手艺，过着还算丰衣足食的生活，颇有村子里最富有家庭的感觉。后来割资本主义尾巴，他不得不回村，干他不擅长的农活来养家糊口。就此开启了衣不遮体，食不果腹的日子。我从父亲的身体语言中，实际上学到了不少：认真，负责，勤于思考，任劳任怨，仁慈善良，太多太多。他是我的启蒙老师，也是我最重要的人生楷模。
破旧杂乱的小镇车站，只停着一辆老旧的公交车，从窗户向里面递送东西的人们正高声吼叫着。这里就是这种习惯，说话就是吼叫，没有轻声细语的习惯。费了好大劲我才挤进车里，父亲则艰难地将木箱安置在车顶，然后他安安静静地站在一旁，等待车子的启动。他的眼神就是最好的交代，也是能够交代的一切。
随着车子的慢慢向前移动，我看着渐行渐远的父亲，脑海中一片空白。车轮卷起的灰尘，就像早上来时的晨雾，又将父亲的身影，若隐若现地送进飞起的尘土之中。车子里的汗臭味，冲鼻而来的滚滚灰尘，早已掩盖泥土味和稻香。这个养育了我十六载的故乡，将就此走进我人生历史的故纸堆。我看着邻座汉子脚上的草鞋，下意识地摸了摸随身携带的布口袋里的布鞋，在想着，啥时候得穿上鞋子。布口袋是我自己的杰作，用小布片对接组成，美观而耐用。布鞋是妈妈的杰作。奶奶说，她也想为我做一双，被妈妈阻止：“奶奶眼神不好，穿针引线很难为她，而且，纳鞋底是个很难做的活计。”
时光已经过去四十多载，父亲也于多年前离开我们。食道癌，一生艰辛的后遗症。母亲则不知从何时开始，不再那么喜欢哭了。我在美国生活的年份，也快赶上当年父亲的岁数。然而，我和父亲在那条乡间小路上，一前一后，被他推送着走向未来的一幕，依然鲜活地存于记忆中。
很多次，父亲的背影在我梦里渐行渐远，但是，我很清楚，那一早的朝阳、那些田埂小路，还有他沉默中满载爱意的背影，一直留在我心中，成为我前行的力量与牵挂。您那瘦弱的肩膀，就像一座大山，是它让我能够站得更高，走得更远，出山村，过武汉，飞向大洋的彼岸。
父亲，我没有让你失望！你辈遭受的欺凌和贫穷，不会在我的后代重演了！
