Figure: Source network

Smoke billows, and when I think of my hometown, I will think of you, your elegant charm and distant back.

Recently, you often appear in my dreams. You are like an old man who is used to watching the storms of the world. For generations, I was in no hurry, and as if nothing had happened, I drifted gently in the village where I was raised.

Cooking smoke, in my dream, I can see your vicissitudes, and I can smell your unchanging breath.

In my childhood memory, your figure is beautiful and kind. Although you are thin, you are as thin as my barren village and my malnourished face. But I still think you are beautiful and kind, just like my simple and kind folks.

When I was a child, I longed for you to come as scheduled. Because when you rise, there will be food to eat; When you get up, there is hope.

I don't know how many times, I remember that my sisters burned the fire in my kitchen. Your strong fragrance filled the yard and the water in the pot boiled. I will keep running out of the door, eager to see my mother. When I see my mother, I will fly over, look into the basin and borrow rice noodles from my neighbors. As far as I can remember, my mother always borrowed it and didn't let me down. At that time, there were many sisters in the family, and they were all very young. They didn't earn any work points, and the rations were not enough for the whole family. My father took 12-year-old sister, took the white flour home, changed it into commodities in distant cities, changed it into rice in Zhongwei, Ningxia, and changed it into coarse grains in cities. In this way, the family still eats intermittently, because my father and sister have not changed back to coarse grains. This is also the scene when your mother went to the neighbor's house to borrow rice and noodles when the smoke rose. Although I ate coarse grains almost every day at that time, I still don't remember the experience of starving to death because of your scheduled rise in the 1970s.

Cooking smoke, that year in Na Yue, smelling your familiar breath, eating my mother's favorite sauerkraut and rice, I left the village where I lived for more than ten years-still a thin village, and came to a strange provincial capital to study.

Looking at the high-rise buildings in the provincial capital, the dazzling array of goods, the endless stream of people and cars. I shed tears for my village, for its loneliness and poverty. The city is so pampered and elegant, but you are so poor and poor.

Walking in the dimly lit streets of the city, I was fascinated by the night in the city. This city captured me. I am in love with this city, and I am eager to throw myself into its arms. In my dream, the smoke is curling up, and your breath is drowned by the noise of the city; Your figure is replaced by the glory of the city. I forgot you, I forgot the village where I grew up.

Finally, I got my wish and became a resident of this city. What followed was trouble. Without a house, I feel like a vagrant in the village, just a passer-by in the city. I ask myself, where is my home and where is my root? At this time, I think of you again-the smoke from the kitchen, the village where I was born, and the courtyard where I was born. In the days of wandering in the city, I am glad that I still have a home, and my roots are in that small village with smoke.

One day, in this city, I finally have a house, my own house. I think with a house, this is home; With a home, this is considered to have taken root in the city; Rooting, this is truly integrated into the city. When I really have a house and have been walking in the city for so many years, I feel less and less at home. My house hangs high in the air and is made of reinforced concrete. Is that my home hanging in the air? Where is my root?

Li Qingzhao said, "Where is my hometown? Unless you are drunk, forget it. "

Cooking smoke, I know that no matter how my status changes, the local accent can't be changed: no matter how far I go, the village that raised me can't be forgotten. And you, I can't forget, you are my hometown, engraved in my heart for a long time. No matter how the years are erased, they cannot be erased.

Yes, no matter how poor and ugly my hometown is, I am still my parents. No matter how ugly and poor a child is, his parents will not abandon him.

"You come from my motherland, tell me what happened! . When you pass my silk window, are plum blossoms in full bloom? " Wei, a great poet in the Tang Dynasty, I often ask about my hometown, and I am glad to see that my hometown has changed day by day.

However, cooking smoke, my hometown is more and more strange to me. Now, the village where I was raised is connected with the county. Small buildings have been built in the village, with rows of uniform two floors. My village is gone, and the village that raised me is gone forever. The village is gone, and the crowing of chickens and dogs can't be heard, and the whining of donkeys and horses can't be heard. My hometown in my heart will disappear. Also, the smoke in my heart, you are gone!

Smoke, I'm lost again. This time, the village that raised me lost me. Or my village, or which block of my city? Although it is not a high-rise building, it is the same reinforced concrete, and it is as cold as ice.

Smoke billows from the kitchen stove, I can't see your figure, and I will never find my way home. In the bustling city and the village where I was raised, I became a homeless prodigal son.

Cooking smoke, I can only smell your breath in my dream and see your figure again. The village that raised me was submerged by the prosperity of the city, and my hometown in my heart was gone. There are no cigarettes in my kitchen. Did I forget my hometown, or did my hometown abandon me?

Yes, "homesickness is a tree without rings and will never grow old."

Kitchen smoke, where are you? Where is my hometown? Where is my homesickness?

Cooking smoke, from then on, your back, "facing your hometown, is a vague disappointment, as if in the fog, waving goodbye."