Those colored pencils used for years
When I was a child, I had very few toys in my hands, and curiosity prompted me to remember that the only toys in my hand were all skin-deep. The electric plane that glittered in the night was bought by my father from the county seat, and the pilot was eventually removed from the seat by me; the two balls my mother bought from the town were kicked by my brother and I, too, out of lustre and gray; the tumbler was still playable, but with a face full of scars.
When I grew up, besides playing with red clay and pinching some trucks, the two colored pens were the most interesting. I don't remember cousin or cousin. I only remember a light powder and a light green. When I first went to school, I was still in the mountains. The textbooks, exercise books and so on were all black and white with eyes, and there was no color that attracted us at all.
At that time, in order to enrich our study and life, the mountain teacher also taught us to draw some simple strokes from time to time. After drawing, he always felt that something was wrong. It was lack of color. Others also have a half-pen, which is supposed to be left by their brothers and sisters, but most of the color is too light. Later, the night before Jane's brush lesson, everyone carefully unscrewed the bottle of wine at home, dripped a few drops of liquor into the core of the brush with chopsticks dipped in liquor, then quietly covered the bottle cap, screwed up the brush, and fell asleep with a colorful dream. In the dream, people borrow colored pens to paint each other. The blue sky, the red sun, the big green trees, and the red and yellow cars galloping past each other. Each picture is so bright and beautiful.
It didn't take long for the two pens to go on a complete strike, neither dripping white wine into the core nor cooling water. Fortunately one day my mother went shopping, and when my brother and I had finished digging through everything, we were surprised to find two oil pens hidden at the bottom of the bag. A red and a green pen, thicker than an adult's thumb, each pen has twelve buttons, each button has a color, vermilion, goose yellow, dark brown, deep lake blue, lilac... From the tip of the pen slowly flowing out.
My brother and I dare not paint our textbooks at random, which is forbidden by the teacher, including the exercise book. Then I came up with a good way to color every balloon in the exercise book I've done before, because there are balloons of any color; to color the flowers with some bright colors, pink, yellow, purple, and blue; to paint the trees with all kinds of green, the animals with their proper colors, the little boys. The little girl's clothes are painted with all kinds of colors. Looking at an old but well-preserved exercise book, open inside, is simply a colorful world, each color is painted so carefully, carefully smelled, there is a faint fragrance.
After studying in autumn, aunt came to my home to borrow the exercise book. The younger brother's younger brother is one year younger than me, and can use the textbook exercise book that I can replace. When aunt was walking, I kept telling me that I must keep my cousin well and give it back to me after it was used up. Although I've done all those questions and can do them, I'm going to leave behind the colors I've painted one by one.
After that Spring Festival, our family went to visit our aunt's house. I kept thinking about that exercise book and I couldn't wait to get out of it. My cousin faltered and lost it.
The flash of time has passed over 20 years, but the colored pen and twelve color oil pen have been in my memory. Just like now, when I see children excitedly opening a large box of colored pens, my heart is always full of memories and happiness, like a child in the heart hidden, see their favorite colored pens, jump up. (the author is a member of the literary society of Mianchi today, Wulanchabu, Inner Mongolia).