Snow: An Eternal Mystery
In childhood memories, snowfall is always associated with the Spring Festival. As the snow melts, it's spring. Just like us, after childhood, we head straight to adolescence.
I look forward to the snow, which is actually looking forward to the Spring Festival. As the heavy snow falls, the New Year is approaching. In childhood memories, snowfall is always associated with the Spring Festival.
The north wind blows fiercely, and the dark sky is covered with drifting clouds. Sparrows are restless and noisy on the ash piles. Grandma said, 'Heaven is brewing snow.' Wine is brewed, just like using cotton wool and old clothes to insulate the stove. Should snow be brewed? That would be like hiding it behind drifting clouds. The days when heaven is brewing snow are all ethereal. The wind no longer raged, and the countryside became solemn. On the fields, the dogs gathered together, playing and arguing, because the hazy sounds of the sparrows were carried far. The sparrows burrowed many eyeholes in the ash piles, searching for the remaining grains of millet. This is when they were most busy and agitated of the year.
The adults work until exhausted, tending the crops. Now, they are busy preparing for the Spring Festival: wiping off the smoke, buying New Year's goods. No matter what, they must pass the New Year in a dignified manner. Even now, parents often lament that in the past, everyone was not wealthy, and there wasn't much to eat. But I really feel that in those days, I was very happy, and as a child, I was easy to satisfy, as long as I was full and warm, that's all I needed, because everything in life was taken care of by my parents. Our entertainment was playing. Of course, I look forward to the Spring Festival, and when the Spring Festival comes, it snows. After the snow, we grow up by one year.
When we were young, we didn't expect to see wind or rain, we just looked forward to seeing snow. When the dark sky was covered with thick clouds, the sparrows no longer twittered, but huddled under the eaves. It must be a world of white snow! We built snowmen and caught sparrows. In our dreams, we would do that. But when we woke up the next morning, it was the bright sunshine. But the north wind was even more biting, penetrating through our cotton-padded jackets. After the noon, more drifting clouds came, and the heavens kept repeating this for several days. Then, the drifting clouds piled up thickly, and the wind couldn't stop them. We waited impatiently, and the children fell asleep in their sleep, and we seemed to hear the sound of rats fighting. Cats go wherever? The next day, the sun rose unusually early. Opening the door, ah! The whole world is white and dazzling. Only a string of cat footprints is on the snow, which is the footprint of spring chasing. It won't take long before we can hear the cats chirping spring.
Snow is warm. We made snowmen, red and hot, steaming with heat, and didn't bother to wet our shoes. On the steps and along the fences, our creations were everywhere, one by one, pure white snowmen. We used date pits, bean pods, and mud to give them noses, eyes, and mouths. Those little dwarves wore bulky winter clothes, they stared blankly at this world. Like you, like me, like her? Only the sparrows huddled together under the eaves, looking at us with a melancholy gaze, without saying a word.
On snowy days, it's also the time when new life is born. I remember that one year, when the heavy snow fell, the livestock in the production team gave birth to a calf. That cow lived for almost thirty years without offspring until the land was redistributed and it died of old age in the snow. Grandma said, 'When I was born, it was already mid-March, but it was snowing heavily.' Grandma went to ask for a midwife because her foot was injured. Thinking about the many 'snow' names in our village – Snow-Nen, Snow-Di, Snow-Chun, Snow-Lin – they were all born on snowy days. I once asked Grandma: 'You said people came from ships, didn't you? I think people also come from snow.' Grandma disagreed, saying it was just because it was snowing, people didn't see it, and at that time, a ship brought them one by one to the shore. Despite Grandma's insistence, I believe that people come from 'snow' – perhaps they are the little white dwarves who have transformed. Why don't my name use 'snow'?
After the heavy snow, it must be the bright sunshine. That dazzling sun is as clean as if it had just been fished out of a well. As the snow melts, the eaves grow long and form frost-like icicles, growing up to one foot and a half long. A gentle breeze blows across the snowfield, raising snowflakes, 'shuru' and cold. Bamboo swayed and shook off the snow, straightened its back. On the steps and in the channels, water gathered and looked for the path to the river. The snow melted. Frost-like icicles fell from the eaves, 'pa pa' sound. We tirelessly scooped up the melting snow from our shaded areas, applying it to the emaciated snow babies. The snow was melting faster and faster, and we were powerless. We watched them shrink day by day until they disappeared completely.
When the snow melts, it's spring. Just like us, after childhood, we head straight to adolescence.
Many years later, when I looked at the empty steps and fences, I sometimes remembered those snowy days. Where are they now? The little white dwarves. Whenever I walk through my hometown's fields and wildflowers, I seem to see their figures hiding behind. Oh! They won't grow old or disappear, because their souls have melted into the endless natural world.
