Autumn rain, always long, with a slight sense of coolness, heralds the arrival of winter,is really unpleasant.
If the spring rain knows the season, moistens things and is silent, or if the winter snow has the scenic spot of "thousands of trees and pears blossom", it brings only annoying thoughts.
I suddenly think of my cactus, it is not afraid of this autumn, even if I do not water for half a month can stand, how can I fear this little autumn rain.
But that year it was afraid, the autumn wind with the autumn rain, dyed the sky and the earth have changed color, its thin body can no longer support, powerless to fall, leaning on the edge of the pot, a dying look, lingering breathlessly.
I didn't like what it looked like, and I hated it even more. It tried its best to grow into such a strange shape in the barren soil. But I don't like it at all.
I am often too lazy to water it, or even leave it in the corner. This humble plant, you are not covered with slender spines, how can you even delusion to protect themselves?
After a long time, suddenly found that it is no longer the original decadent look, slightly more vitality.
Dark red thorns, slightly larger body a little more green. Even a few cactus balls were drilled out, tender, green, and newborn babies generally looked at the world, much more lovely than their mothers.
Soon more cactus balls were hung. "Get them down." Mother said. Hearing this, I didn't take any action. I just stood on the balcony and enjoyed the sunshine. I know that their mothers must be very hard, busy to get nutrients, feeding this group of baby lurking on it.
It may be a little weak. But I still have some other plans. I don't want to get them down. After all, it will look better. I made a decision that I regretted. I knew the result. But I still... Look at it again, cactus ball has been hanging more than a dozen, one by one, more full of vitality, more lovely.
But their mothers are totally out of order. They have never flowered again. As a flowering cactus, it is a great tragedy. It's dark green like a layer of grey.
It's sick, maybe it's no better. It gives all the nutrients to its children, but why doesn't it think about itself? It shouldn't be so.
But how can it give up, one by one, all its children, its baby, how can it give up? It's a mother. In this long and cool autumn rain, I think of that great mother.
I think of her beauty and bravery, weakness and strength. I think of my mother and all the mothers in the world: they, like spring rain, moisten things and silent, how sad the autumn wind and rain is, as before, with love, to open the child's young heart.