The library is located at the foot of the mountain, with many mountains and temples. There are more temples and more monks. The museum is private, but this book can be read by the public. The curator is a man with a story. He always stared at the "can be broken, put it down, rest assured" on the wall. This was told to him by the elders in the temple on the mountain. In return, he said that monks could come here to read books in the future.
I was put here when I was three or five years old. I live in my grandmother's house, and my grandmother has no time to take care of me. She can be divided into 48 hours a day, half of which is used to take care of her chickens, ducks, fish and dogs, the other half to take care of her granddaughter's food, and the rest is secretly squeezed out to take care of herself and her dear wife. I lie prone on the bench and stay in the library all day. Sometimes when I see something novel and beautiful with an activity cover, I take it down and ask the curator, "Master curator, can I have this?" He smiled and said nothing. I thought he agreed, ran home happily, and was dragged back by my grandmother to apologize. He is still smiling. Since then, I have been a little afraid to face the curator, sitting quietly in the corner every day without saying a word. But it's still a child's mind. I can say whatever I want. I have a crush on a book, and the illustrations on the text are exquisite and unusual, lined with the embossed words "If I think of you in the water, if I think of you in the new green of willows". I couldn't restrain my excitement and said to the curator, "I want this, curator."
The curator smiled, didn't say anything, and didn't sayno. I learned from this lesson and hurried home to collect books. Unfortunately, grandma found out again. Grandma's backhand is a slap, a bang, hitting my ass. My cries were so loud that the villagers came to watch. I'm still young, but I still know that I'm shy and I can't wash my dirty linen in public. Just say I was bitten by blackie. But the villagers knew, and I was beaten by my grandmother.
In the evening, grandma hugged me, and I hugged an apple and a book cover. The apology came out of my mouth for the first time. The curator smiled generously and gave me a stamp without saying anything.
Since then, I have never been to the library at the foot of the mountain. I play with a group of sensible children every day, talking about the lion king and yo-yo. Then, I went to kindergarten.
During the summer vacation, I went back to my grandmother's house once. After greeting her, I took a popsicle and hurried down the hill. Running with something in your mouth, this habit grandma has told me many times, and I can't change it. The library is quiet and there are many monks reading books. The curator is still here. "The curator's adult!" For me, the title of "adult" is given by me. This is the highest title. Adults are no different from children. In my child's mind, grandma is also an adult, but not the same. The curator is a carefree gentleman, and he won't get angry no matter what I do. "My Lord, I am a little adult now." Hearing my words, the curator was shocked and then smiled: "Here comes the little darling, go and read!" " "I agree with Lin Rui. I thought the curator would not recognize me, but I didn't expect him to remember me.
I stayed in the library all summer vacation. Monks are not very talkative, but they always look at me kindly. I call them "monks". Five-year-old children are inarticulate. This "man" can't beat him. Those monks come only once a week. So on that day, the whole building was full of profound Zen. When I left, the curator gave me a set of books, and I clamored for them, even being beaten by my grandmother. The monk in the temple also gave me a string of beads.
I haven't been in touch since then, and my grandmother doesn't go there often. Later, grandma moved, and it was even more impossible to go again.
It's been so long that I almost forgot them. Later, I went to many libraries, private, national, street and deep in the forest, but I never felt at ease. I don't know if it is because there are no adult librarians, no monks, no distant Zen, or because there are no benches in my childhood.
I wonder if the curator still remembers the child who called him "adult". Do those monks remember the little boy who called them "Monks"?
Perhaps, everything is gone at any time. After all, "I think" has become "I wish", without the arrogance of the past. After all, I have grown up. ...