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The love of the tile, the temperature of the home

The love of the tile, the temperature of the home

There are many elements of nostalgia, a vegetable and a vegetable, a house and an eaves, an alley, a door panel, a stone pier, a dilapidated and desolate courtyard with moss, tiles, and one of the elements of nostalgia. Tile, but also the object of literati and ink love, Li Shangyin poem said: "The eaves ice drips goose tubes, and the roof tiles are carved with fish scales." Lu You has: "Ten thousand watts of frost leak at night, and the boat is oblique and the moon passes over Langan." It's hateful to be old, but when you look good, you're afraid of the cold. Ouyang Xiu said: "Ten thousand watts of green smoke are born at sunset, and the dipper welcomes the New Year and turns to the east city." "The literati and ink writers use their immortal brushwork to give the tile infinite vitality.

In the hustle and bustle of the city, I love the old streets and alleys, the mottled blue brick roads, the old wooden doors, and the tiles that have passed the baptism of time. Lying quietly in a corner of the old town, it has witnessed the changes of the years and carried the stories and emotions of countless people. They are like silent old men, quietly telling the story of the past, every inch, every tile, carrying the weight of history, but also carrying the temperature of home, carrying my deep feelings for home.

Tiles are so common that they are not taken seriously, and the color of blue and black is extremely low-key and dull. But tiles are so important, no one can build a house without tiles, and if a tile falls off from the roof of someone's house, they have to quickly replace it. At that time, almost every corner of the courtyard or inconspicuous place in the street was often stacked with someone's spare tiles. These substitutes, who have been silent all year round, have endured the wind and rain, and some have not yet reached the roof, and have played their part, and have been crushed by naughty children or violent winds, and they have no regrets, no hatred.

The love of the tile, the temperature of the home

Tile, from the soil. A handful of soil, soft, tendonous, calm, it feeds countless creatures, and it is held in people's hands, kneaded and felt, has undergone a series of tests such as people's picky touch, vision, etc., and then after beating, squeezing, high-temperature barbecue, it becomes hard, solid, and more and more deep, it becomes hard from soft, out of the vast land, becomes no longer vast and far-reaching, becomes a small tile, living on the roof of people's houses, becoming an inconspicuous piece. And it is this inconspicuous piece, guarding the peace of others, smelling the flavor of life brought by the smoke of others, "Biwa thousands of new rain, green pine and ten thousand gullies are smoking" Su Zhe's poems, such as the newborn tile, clear, fresh, spiritual, with a warm smell of fireworks.

Sunlight shines through the gaps in the jagged high-rise buildings and spills on the green brick roads of the old town. Here, time seems to slow down, and every brick and tile tells its own story. On the roof of a quaint old mansion, the tile lies quietly, it has been lying here for decades, witnessing countless sunrises and sunsets.

The love of the tile, the temperature of the home

This tile was once part of the home that my parents built together when they were young. At that time, they were full of hope and built this warm harbor with their hands and sweat. Time flies, and in the blink of an eye, they have passed away one after another, and their children have also started their own families and moved out of this old house. The old house gradually fell into disuse, and the tile lost its former glory. But it still holds its place. Guarding this pure land, as if waiting for something! And that piece of tile also witnesses their love and the warmth of their family. Those tiles are either complete or broken, they flicker in the sun, calm in the rain, swaying in the wind, like wordless poems, telling the vicissitudes of time, but also telling the ups and downs of home. Each tile is a part of the home, a testimony of the father's hard work, a symbol of the mother's careful care, a background for brothers and sisters to play, the warmth of home, and the taste of home.

I like to walk alone in these old streets and alleys at dusk after the rain, watching those tiles shimmer golden in the afterglow of the sunset, like bright gems, inlaid at the end of the bluestone pavement. At that moment, I seemed to be able to hear the whispers of the years, feel the temperature of history, and feel the pulse of home.

Those tiles are not only a part of the building, but also a testimony of home and a trace of family affection. They have witnessed the changes of the home, the joys and sorrows of the family, and the warmth of the home. They are the memories of home, the traces of home, and my deep feelings.

The blue-black tiles, some boxy, some with big heads and small heads, bow down, let their center concave, bear the wind and rain of nature, and their own destiny, it knows its mission. Its body has the heaviness of loess, the rolling waves of the Yellow River, and the silence and antiquity of the mountains. I recalled the scene when my father went to the house to repair the tiles, and suddenly, I realized that my father was the same tile. He is gone from us, and there is no one to mend the discarded tiles for us and to guard our lives. At this point, tears welled up in my eyes. I remember when I was a child, whenever it rained heavily, my father would always pick up a wooden ladder and climb to the roof to check whether the tiles were in good condition. It is a kind of protection, a kind of responsibility, and a deep love for home. And I, on the other hand, would always stand aside, watching my father's busy figure, watching those tiles flickering in the rain, and my heart was full of warmth.

After the rain of the tile, I can't help but feel a little more tender and tactful, pure and thorough, and the rain that falls on the tile beats out a place of poetry and a place of romance. The rain comes from the distant heavens, and when it falls on the earth, it not only brings moisture, moistens the land and crops of the world, and washes the hearts of mortals in the world, and the sound of the rain is also wonderful. And if the rain and the tile meet, then this natural sound is more wonderful, listen to the sound of the rain hitting the tile, suitable for the night quiet time. Everything was silent, listening quietly, and it was a feeling that could only be understood, or rather, I could not think of any onomatopoeia to describe its beauty. I devoted all my body and soul to listening to the natural sound of their encounter, imagining that a simple woman, with her slender jade hand, plucked the strings, the song was subdued and frustrated, flowing slowly along the corrugated, flowing down the eaves, falling on the ground under the eaves, snapping, as if hitting a high note, a node, but after the node, it was still the same melody, sometimes the mountains and flowing water, the two springs reflecting the moon.

Tile, I have heard the sorrow and joy of the kiln workers, I have also heard the expectations and chatters of the people under the tile, I have witnessed the temperature of the furnace fire, and the poverty of the people, it guards the people, guards the stars and the moon, and plays with the wisps of silver and white sunlight. And it never reveals the slightest secret. I am born with a strong affection for the tile, I love its blue and black color, knock it gently, the sound is crisp and dry, the echo is faint, and it is clear and desireless. It made me addicted. The broken tiles are also useful to me, I grind the broken tiles into small squares, which become the toys we used to kick the tiles in our childhood, and I will also knock the large broken tiles into small pieces, and then grind them into small cylindrical shapes, which become toys for us to grab. Together, they held up the joyful moments of my childhood.

The love of the tile is not just a memory. It is also a kind of spiritual inheritance. That's my nostalgia for home, my cherishing of home, and my expectation for home. In those tiles, I saw the heaviness of home, the sweetness and sourness of home, and the beauty of home. Those tiles, like bright stars, illuminate my path forward, and also illuminate the home in my heart. Under that tile, there is my warm home, my beloved family, and my eternal affection.