There is a thin field in my hometown, which was left by my grandfather. He often said when he was alive: “The land is our lifeblood. Without this land, we are nothing.” When I was a child, I didn’t understand why my grandfather was so persistent. I always thought that the land was just a piece of stone slab, nothing great. However, as I grew older, I gradually understood the heavy power behind his words.
My grandfather has been dead for many years, and the land is still there, and the places where he has been cultivated year after year have never changed. But I found that with the flow of time, the originally solid soil is slowly eroding, and everything that has grown has disappeared without a trace. People say that the land is always changing, and it is impossible to maintain the same state forever, but every time I stand on this land and look at the ridge in front of me, I have a strange feeling, as if I am standing in a place where I can’t turn back.
My mother often said that time cannot flow back, just like this field. You always feel that it will always be there, but you don’t know that its changes have already begun quietly. The crops that were planted in those days are now gone, and the dreams and hopes that once existed have long been blown away by the wind of time.
I remember that when my grandfather was young, he often called me to the edge of the field and taught me how to choose the best seeds and how to use a hoe to turn over a new world in the soil. “Although this field is not big, it can feed our family.” Grandpa said as he inserted the hoe deeply into the soil. At that time, I always watched his every move, and I felt that the words of those adults were always so authoritative, as if this piece of land was really the source of destiny that could be relied on.
However, as I grew up, I found that this piece of land was still not our real reliance. The death of my grandfather made this land even more barren. My mother gave the land to me, but I still didn’t have the ability to make this land more fertile like my grandfather. The harvest of the land was getting worse and worse, and the crops often withered. Like many young people in trouble, I was confused, anxious, and full of uncertainty about the future.
I often sit under the eaves, watching my mother’s busy figure, but I think in my heart, can we really rely on this land? My father went out to work in his early years and has not returned yet. My mother has been supporting the family strongly, but she is gradually unable to do so. Neighbors in the village often come to comfort her, saying that it is already amazing that she manages the family affairs well by herself, but I know that her inner suffering is far more than that.
Every morning, my mother will get up early and work in the fields. Her movements are no longer so flexible, and her waist and back are gradually bent. Despite this, she still refuses to give up and continues to cultivate in the wind and rain, as if this land is her only support. However, I know that this land can no longer bring us a rich life, and its embrace has become empty and barren.
The men in the village have long gone to work in the city, and most of those left in the village are the elderly, the weak, women and children. The land here can no longer feed most people. Everyone understands that only by leaving here can we have the opportunity to change our destiny. But every time I see my mother standing at the door, with the reluctance and heaviness in her eyes, I can’t help but feel guilty, as if we are destined to stay on this land and can’t escape.
Sometimes I ask myself, why can’t we leave this land and pursue a new life? However, my mother’s answer is always so simple and heavy: “This land is our root. The deeper the root is, the more powerful it is.” I don’t know if this is my mother’s persistence, or her nostalgia for the past, or her helplessness. But I can feel that she has never really given up this field. This land has carried too many of our stories. It has witnessed our growth and ups and downs, witnessed the death of my grandfather, and witnessed my mother’s countless days of working in the soil.
However, fate makes us understand that no matter how we struggle and how we change, we will eventually return to the original place. This land is not only our reliance, it also carries the emotions and memories deep in our hearts, and carries the persistence for home and homeland. No matter how life changes, this land has long become a part of us that we cannot give up. It is not only a piece of soil for growth, but also an emotion buried deep in our hearts.
In those years, we sowed many hopes on this land, but as time goes by, many hopes have become out of reach. The dreams we once had have long been shattered by reality. Now, standing on the ridge of the field, looking at the gradually desolate land, what surges in my heart is endless sadness and helplessness. Perhaps, we have missed the original dream and the pure hope that was once there.
However, this land is still there. This land is a part of our life. Even if the years are ruthless and the dream is far away, we still stick to this land and stick to the memories and emotions we once had.