Grandma’s Magic Box

Fingers are dazzling, and a basket is gestated in it. With its continuous flipping and jumping, it finally grows into a beautiful basket under the skillful hand of the knitter. It is placed gently at the creator’s feet, close to several similar brothers and their relatives, straw hats.
These straw hats and baskets, woven by hand, are rare in the countryside, not to mention in the city.
I gazed at the knitter’s hands, like the hands of my grandmother who had spent most of her life working in the farmland, covered with old spots and cocoons – the hands of a pair of farmers.
My grandmother is a countryman, and has never been out of that small village in her life. In my childhood, I spent a lot of time shuttling through my grandmother’s house, running on the goat intestine path between farmlands, and getting a strong sunshine and local flavor.
Grandma always asked me to follow her and follow him to the fields. When I was a child, I loved Grandma’s straw hat as if I were wearing an inverted loophole. I prefer Grandma’s basket. It’s not beautiful, and it’s the same color as the earth. He’s not comfortable, just as rough as Grandma’s hand, and a bit prickly.
Grandma was wearing a white T-shirt and black broad-legged trousers. She tied up her trousers feet, buckled up her straw hat, and also buckled one for me. Pick up a big basket and give me a smaller one. If you carry a hoe, you will go out.
When I was young, I saw how tall my grandmother was. I could huddle my whole body in her shadow. I could step on her footprints. So the burning in summer and the mud in the path were covered by grandma.
Grandma’s hoe was shining with cold silver and hit the ground with one blow. This belongs to Grandma’s land, I can’t count how many treasures it contains. My butt flipped around Grandma. From time to time, Grandma shouted at me and handed me some little red peppers or some slender cucumbers. I took them and put them in my basket. If it’s winter melon, pumpkin or something like that, I’ll move into my grandmother’s basket. There are a lot of wild flowers on the roadside. I choose some which I like and insert them into my grandmother’s basket and mine. Thus, the red, yellow and green interweave together, the two baskets constitute a natural oil painting, washed fruits and vegetables, and the sun shines more delicately.
Grandma picked up the basket full of fruits and flowers, and I picked up my basket full of childhood and joy, and went back on the road.
My basket is not heavy. It sways like a swing in my hand. The branches pluck through the strings of the sunlight and play happy country songs.
I often see farmers, with their rickets, digging out rich fruits in the treasure land that belongs to them, with their dark skin glowing in the sunshine.
I look at Grandma and my basket. This is Grandma’s magic treasure box. She is full of not only fruits and vegetables, but also me, grandma and the sun shining sky to understand the rich – my childhood ah!