Extra: Xiaoman's Crop Time Book
#Bonus Xiaoman's Crop Time Book
As the morning light crept over the bamboo fence of the old variety base, I saw Xiaochen squatting beside his "Star Pattern" tomato seedlings, his chubby hands gently brushing the morning dew from the leaves. The dew on his hair looked like a handful of diamonds, reflecting the pale yellow lines on the edges of the tomato leaves, a gentleness that made my heart tremble.
"Mom, Miaomiao, remember the bamboo frame we built yesterday?" He ran over, holding a crayon sketchbook. On the paper were croaky drawings of tomato vines and a small bamboo frame, with a grinning little man drawn next to it. "Dad said this is how he learned to build a frame from his great-grandfather when he was a kid!"
I squatted down to wipe the mud off the tip of his nose. As my fingertips touched his soft cheek, I remembered the first time Chen Wang brushed grass from my hair. Back then, the tomato seedlings had just sprouted leaves, and Chen Wang was squatting on the edge of the field, helping me tie the bamboo frame. His sleeves were stained with black mud, but he carefully avoided the leaves, saying, "The seedlings are tender, don't touch them." Now, thinking about it, it seems that from the very beginning, this land has quietly recorded our story, in the very veins of the crops.
As I turned toward the strawberry patch, the corner of my clothes brushed against a few red strawberries. The fruit's skin shone in the sunlight, and I suddenly remembered our wedding day—Grandma Zhang holding a sesame-sprinkled wedding cake, delicate petals falling from the old pear tree, the villagers surrounding us applauding, and Chen Wang holding my hand, his palm wet with sweat, saying, "From now on, we'll guard this field and each other." I bent down, picked a strawberry, took a bite, and the sweet juice filled my nostrils. It tasted exactly like the first strawberry he handed me that year.
"Sister Xiaoman, it's time to bottle this batch of strawberry jam!" Xiaoyan from the village called me, holding a glass bottle with a tomato pattern. The faint scent of lavender wafted through the workshop. Chen Wang had picked it this morning from the hills behind. He always remembered my summer fear of mosquitoes, so every year at this time he'd put dried lavender in a small cloth bag and tuck it into my pocket, just like when he'd secretly pinned a lavender flower to my straw hat when we first met.
While Xiaochen and Xiaoyan's children played "Catch the Bug" in the parent-child area, I walked to the old pear tree and traced my fingertips along its gnarled trunk. The tree still bore the tiny "囍" character we had carved together when Chen Wang proposed. Newly sprouted branches now enveloped the writing, enveloping it in the warm wood, like a secret that refused to fade. A breeze blew, and a few pear leaves slowly fell, one of which landed squarely in the palm of my open hand.
The veins in the leaves reminded me of the morning when Chen Wang and I first planted tomatoes—he squatted on the edge of the field, holding a dark brown "Star Pattern" seed in his hand. I handed him a canteen of spring water, and Wangfu was beside him, wagging his tail by the hem of his pants. His shirt was stained with mud, but his eyes were bright as if filled with morning dew. He said, "Let's cultivate this field together and keep this old variety alive."
"Mom! Look, the seedlings are bearing small green fruits!" Xiaochen's shout interrupted my thoughts. He pulled me over to the tomato seedlings and pointed at the fingernail-sized green fruits on the branches, jumping up and down excitedly: "Dad said that when the fruits turn red, we can make tomato sauce to send to Grandma Zhang!"
Chen Wang had somehow stopped at the end of the field, clutching a half-basket of freshly picked lemons. He smiled upon seeing us. Sunlight filtered through his hair, casting tiny specks of light on the ground, reminiscent of the pale yellow veins in a tomato leaf. He came over and naturally took the glass bottle from my hand. His fingertips gently touched the pearwood ring on my ring finger—he had carved it last year from an old pear tree branch, with the words "Years and Years" engraved on the inside. He said, "Like this tree, our days will slowly grow longer and sweeter."
"Make lemon tea tonight. Xiaochen was talking about it yesterday." He lowered his head and placed a light kiss on my forehead, his breath carrying the freshness of lemon and the sweet scent of strawberry.
As dusk fell, I sat on a bamboo chair at the courtyard gate, flipping through my grandfather's old planting notes. A dried pear leaf was stuck to the last page, where it had fallen on the day of our wedding. A faint trace of sunlight still lingered between the leaf veins. I added a line of words next to it: "Crops remember the heart. One field, one house. One life, one person. Life is sweeter than honey."
Xiaochen lay in Chen Wang's arms, listening to his stories about his great-grandfather's pear farming. Wangfu curled up at my feet, his tail occasionally brushing the hem of my skirt. In the distance, at the base, tomato vines and strawberry beds cast soft outlines in the twilight. The old pear tree cast a long shadow, shrouding our entire family.
It turns out the best time is to watch over this field, watching the crops sprout and bear fruit, watching the children grow up, with the people around me always there. The days are like the annual rings of an old pear tree, circling around with warmth, slowly moving forward, and slowly becoming sweet.
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